


The Cuckoo's Call

by xxCopyCatxx



Series: White Collar, Blue Wings [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crime, Crossover, Gen, Murder, Neal Caffrey is Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-02-02 14:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12728823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxCopyCatxx/pseuds/xxCopyCatxx
Summary: Neal wakes up to a disheveled Mozzie bursting into his apartment. There's been a murder, and Moz believes the killer is looking for him. He's not wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really bad with titles, summaries and also, apparently, with wrapping things up. At first, this was just supposed to be another chapter for my one-shot collection and evolved from there...

The door to his apartment is thrown open, and Neal is sitting up ready to defend himself, before he even passes as half-conscious. His vision is still a bit blurry, but the adrenaline helps him wake up enough to recognize the familiar form of his balding friend in the darkness.

“Mozzie?,” he groans, ready to fall back onto the pillows he touched down upon only an hour earlier, having patrolled until one in the morning.

There’s no answer from the figure in his doorway, so Neal prepares himself for the blinding brightness and switches on his bedside lamp.

“Moz, what’s wrong?”

Neal blinks, brushes the still damp locks of his hair out of his eyes, and then the last rest of bleariness falls off of him. Mozzie looks _haunted_ , tired, sweaty pale with panic crawling behind his eyes and he definitely needs a friend right now. Without a second thought Neal jumps out of bed to comfort him with a touch to the shoulder and gently forces the trembling man to take a seat on the couch.

“Are you all right?” Moz certainly doesn’t look all right, but Neal can’t spot any injuries, as he subtly pats his friends down.

Mozzie is still shaking, so Neal gets up and returns with two glistering glasses and a bottle of red wine from the cabinet. He pours for both of them, more for his friend who clutches onto the glass like a life line and takes an uncharacteristic gulp without a second to appreciate the bouquet of the Pinot Noire.

“Eddie Malcoms is dead,” he finally brings out, “and I…” Another sip, only slightly smaller than the first. “I’m next, it would seem.”

Neal furrows his brow. That’s cryptic, even for Mozzie’s standards and he needs more details to gauge the situation. “Not if I get a say in it. Tell me what happened.”

“Heist on the diamond store on Second Street.”

“You ran a job at Ecletic?” Neal is less bothered by the illegality of the act than the fact Moz didn't even ask him to join, but his friend picks up on the unvoiced complaint.

The shorter con-man shakes his head. “I only set Ed up with information, for old time’s sakes and kept a bit of an eye on him. This was supposed to be his last thing, one last coup to foot his wife’s medical bills and get his kids through college.”

That is the thing in their business, Neal thinks with regret. There is no such thing as the last job or the last patrol – unless it actually _becomes_ the last. He raises his wine in a toast. “To last coups.”

“And the ones after,” Moz smiles wistfully and almost empties his glass. Neal dutifully refills it and gives Moz a moment to both honor Eddie and let the spirit work its magic.

Neal did his homework and of course knows about Eddie Malcoms and his two boys, if only in passing. The man used to be a well-known face some twenty years back, before he married and mostly retired, except for a picked pocket or two.

“The job went south?,” Neal questions, when Moz doesn’t continue on his own.

“I’m not sure what happened exactly. I heard dispatch call in the robbery and a body, so I went to check it out. The place was swarming with cops and they carried him out in a bag.”

“You sure it was him? The body could have belonged to his partner.”

“It was him alright. Ed worked alone, always did. Precise one-man-jobs were his specialty.” He takes of his spectacles and polishes the glass with the dip of his shirt.

It sounded a lot like a hidden party; maybe a friend of Ed's or someone else got wind of the job. Jewelry heists promised a lot of loot and good money - enough to make people desperate and bring out the worst in them.

Neal nods. That is an angle to work later, once he has the full story.

“So why do you think you're in danger, too? Partner or not, Malcoms’ killer has no reason to target you if all you did was broker information.”

Moz sighed heavily. “I was not the only one watching them put away Ed's body. Someone else was there and made me. I hightailed out of there and they were following me. Five-eight tall, slim, I think…” For a moment, Mozzie trails off, as if he lost the train of his thoughts mid-sentence, before he takes another sip, collects himself and continues: “And _good_. I couldn't shake them, could feel their stare like lasers at the back of my head, until I managed to lose them in the tunnels. I laid low in Monday for a while and then came straight here.”

Monday is essentially a bunker located in a dead shaft of the subway system, featuring excessive security, lead-lined walls, scrambling devices and tons of things more Neal doesn’t even want to know about. Of all his friend’s safe-houses, this is the only one Mozzie refuses to disclose the exact location of – no one, not even Nightwing or municipal services knows the dark underbelly of New York like Moz does, who navigates it like he was born there and is one of the fabled mole-people.

Not for lack of trying though; Neal compiled maps of the nearest vicinity and the tunnel ending behind a secure door in June’s basement. Even if he usually prefers the wide open sky to the damp labyrinth underneath, he likes to keep his options open and June has given him the combination for the hidden door – and Moz as well, it seems.

“There’s a difference in tailing and targeting,” Neal states calmly, with a bit of skepticism slipping into his voice.

Moz bristles, his glare conveying the feeling of mortal insult: “It’s the Cuckoo.”

“The Cuckoo,” Neal echoes, trying to follow the mental leap. “The Cuckoo is a myth.” Every once in a while, there is talk on the streets of the phantom that goes around, taking over fully fledged plans while they are being executed and leaving nothing behind but the poor sob who came up with them in the first place. An urban legend, nothing more. The talk of the Cuckoo is mostly limited to the Big Apple, but every community of criminals has similar stories to tell. And most are exactly that, nothing but stories, the type of which led Bruce to his assumptions: Superstitious and cowardly lot indeed.

“That’s what he wants you to believe,” Moz lectures and takes another sip. “It’s always the same MO: He hits lone wolves, seemingly random - and makes sure anyone involved in the original plan and any witnesses die. I saw Ed’s body before they bagged him, strangled. Killed by brute force, no weapon.  It’s the same as LeGrange last September in Brooklyn, Fiero two months before that, Miller, Santiago…”

Moz might be prone to paranoia, but he rarely errs when his own life is at stake. Besides, he does have a point: The cases he mentions actually do seem jarringly similar from this angle. Neal takes a moment to ponder. If there really is a Cuckoo – and Neal’s starting to belief there is, because the cosmos just _loves_ flinging avian-themed madness at him – he’ll protect his friend and catch the crook. If there isn’t, it doesn’t hurt to snoop around a bit, bring Malcoms’ killer behind bars and find the stolen jewels.

“Okay, Cuckoo it is,” Neal agrees and Moz would smile triumphantly if not for the fear still clawing at his mind.

“We'll get to the bottom off this and find the guy before he finds you,” the CI promises. “In the meanwhile you can lay low here if you want, get some sleep and then look into the other murders with a Cuckoo angle once the sun is up. You probably shouldn't walk around outside, so I'll do the legwork on this one.”

“What about your leash, mon frère? I can't have the suits involved.”

Right, because they can only explain this mess to Peter by implicating Moz in a felony.

“Feds in their natural habitat are mostly diurnal,” Neal grins, “And if Peter should decide to check my anklet, I'll think of a story.”

“Right. I can-”

“Go to sleep,” Neal interrupts. “I'll handle it and you can analyze what I found later.”

 

It takes the thread to call Peter right this instance and tell him everything for Moz to back down and curl up on the couch and Neal disappears into his dressing room to change. His vigilante body armor is snugger and tighter than Batman's and doesn't quite fit over or under his tracking anklet, so Neal bows down to remove it.

He taps it twice and murmurs: “Tel og.” The anklet grows lax and he easily slips it off, with a silent thanks to Zatanna. Her enchantment once again works wonders and he doesn't mind owing a favor to a friend. On that note, he should take her out again soon. Nice dinner, maybe a movie and then a minor villain or two to top it off. A bit of casual fun.

He dons his bodysuit and over it the leather jacket he's taken to wearing when going into not quite legal situations. His domino mask is sewed into a secret pocket, together with the adhesive he uses to keep it in place. Directly on top of it he keeps his lock picks, so anyone patting him down will find them first and maybe stop at that. He tops of his ensemble by snugging on his wrist computer and his utility belt, and hides his anklet in their place in the sturdy but hollow bar of the closet.

When he steps back out of the room, he finds Moz asleep, exhaustion having taken its toll. Even now the little man is sweating and his lips are moving in silent, dream induced non-sequiturs.

Neal moves in to pull a blanket over his friends and then sneaks out on the balcony, silently closing the door behind him. He fixes his mask and with a swishing sound, his grappling hook deploys and he launches into the night, towards the scene of Malcoms' demise. Stopping on the nearest rooftop overlooking the scene painted in flashes of blue and red Nightwing waits, and watches the officer in the last car on scene. He patches his comms into their chatter and hacks into the NYPD’s files. The backdoor he installed into their systems pays off once again and he quickly scans through the latest updates – the file on the Eclectic robbery however is as expected still empty, so the detective work falls to him.

He closes his gauntlet’s display down and ponders a way to get onto the scene of crime. The officer on duty is no challenge in that, mostly occupied with staying awake and sipping from his steaming thermos cup. For a moment, Neal is tempted to create a small distraction and lift the hot beverage from the cop, but restrains himself. He is used to late hours and little sleep, even if he has gotten softer away from Bruce’s strict regime – plus, he was a cop once himself and wouldn’t steep as low as to steal another officer’s life elixir.

His eyes swipe over the building the jewelry store is located in. The windows are barred but the electronic security on the front door and the alarm system both seem to be disabled to allow the police easy access. Not that there’s anything left to steal in there, in case the patrol in front of the door and the flashing yellow tape aren’t deterrent enough.

Well, for Neal they obviously aren’t, but then again he is not really here to take someone’s left overs.

 

He throws a modified Wing-Ding into the other direction that emits the loud honking of a car alarm. He waits for the officer to turn around, before he flings his line across the street, drops down in front of the door, forces the lock and slips into the darkened shop. In a single fluid movement, he closes the door again and glides into the blind spot of the security camera he knows is on the ground behind the display case closes to the door. Knowing all the places worth casing and their strategic weak points comes naturally to Neal Caffrey and also pays off as Nightwing.

Even without a flashlight he can see his surroundings clearly thanks to the lenses in his mask, so Nightwing aims a bat-gadget at each of the cameras. The little electronic devices he nicknamed Cam-Kills are weighted down for a better trajectory but still less aerodynamic than a batarang, so he throws them carefully, one at a time. With an almost imperceptible whirr they spring into action, recording for a few seconds and then looping the footage. The corresponding panel at his gauntlet alerts Nightwing all cameras are clear now, so he gets out of cover and finally takes a real look around.

The first thing that draws his attention is the chalked outline on the floor, where Malcoms was found at the entrance to the employees-only-backrooms. As Moz had observed, the body has already been moved, so the vigilante can't verify the cause of death just yet, although he gets a few clues: All the display cases are undamaged, albeit empty; there are no splatters of blood or other signs of a violent confrontation around and the extremities must have laid limply and closely to the torso, which beckons the deduction Malcoms was ambushed. No real signs of a struggle and the location of the body suggest this was no fair fight. The poor man probably was dead or very nearly so when he came to lie on the floor.  
So how did Malcom and the mystery killer get in?

Nightwing basically waltzed in through the open door, piggybacking on the police’s and the burglar’s work - if the Maybe-Cuckoo was smart, he did the very same: Let Malcoms do the heavy lifting and then take off with the spoils, as the empty store and the location of the body suggests. Malcoms himself however shouldn’t have had that advantage.

With the windows still barred and walls and ground intact, the only way in lead through the front door, which is secured twice; one of the obstacles is an advanced lock that needs a lot more than gum and a hairpin, but is manageable to anyone with decent skill, a good set of picks and a few minutes. – That is, if they manage to disarm it or tamper with the system, so that the bars protecting the door are lifted. It’s an OmniCusto600, smart enough to call out to the private security company selling it and the police in case it registers any attempts to crack it or the wrong combination of fingerprint and code-imprinted key are used.

As tough as the system sounds, it is still designed to be practical and to not transform the place into a death-trap in cases of emergency. If Neal had to run a job on this place, he’d take it during business hours while the alarm is disengaged and easier to manipulate, with the help of a smoke-bomb, to stop the bars from closing down. Or he’d catch the last employee right before the store is locked down. Or he’d masquerade as a maintenance worker of the security company and create contingencies to crack the system later.

At night however and forced to improvise, even his options are limited, if he doesn’t want to try blasting his way through. Neal could bypass the system with the technician’s key that didn’t come into his hands in quite legal ways, his personal access code still ingrained in the depths of CustoFirm’s severs – which however would still grant only a small timeframe of five minutes for someone with the actual access to disarm the system or else once again triggering it. It’s too small a respite to pull a big job and only a loophole installed to get into the place in case of a technical error or a series of accidents making it otherwise impossible to disable the system.

 

From the inside however, that maintenance ID proves more useful: It allows him to check the logs and error reports.

He finds the panel he needs to access next to the jeweler’s jarringly open and empty safe – just to make sure Nightwing dusts the steel for any prints or partials, but as expected turns up empty, just as he did on the glass cases. Malcoms planned to walk from this a rich and, more importantly, free man and made sure to leave no identifiers at the scene of the crime.

Nightwing unlocks the panel and connects his wrist computer to the system. After entering the required codes, the log file and feeds from the security cameras pop up on his holo-screen. He first checks the most recent footage to make sure his own entry did not leave any traces and then rewinds the files: At one-thirteen, a masked person enters the store, their silhouette clad in black and merging with the darkness. That must be Malcoms, who unhurriedly cracks the display cases, packs the loot into a padded, black suitcase and disappears into the employees-only-area. Another camera caught the man cracking the safe and then emptying it as well. While Malcoms is concentrating on the safe’s lock, there’s movement in the sales area. The person fits the worryingly vague description of Mozzie’s tail, with a dark shawl covering their face from the cameras. He can show his friend the image later, get a few more details out of him when Moz’ calmed down.

The Maybe-Cuckoo waits for Malcoms to finish packing everything into the bags and make for the door before ambushing him from the side. Malcoms is lifted by the throat and struggles helplessly, until he doesn’t anymore and is left behind on the floor like garbage, while his killer makes off with the loot.

Nightwing rewinds and watches the scene again. He doesn’t pick up on anything else of significance; even if he is sure something must be there, a speck of information he is missing. A detail he can’t yet see. Bruce or Tim would probably have spotted it by now, but Dick is better with people than with cold data – he just needs a bit more time to work it out, and will get there, eventually. He will take another look later and figure it out then, so he downloads the footage onto his computer and opens the log data.

It shows the store was unlocked at regular business hours, except for tonight. The alarm was always disabled by the master access of the owner, a certain Brent Rojas – even the fateful last time. Malcoms must have gotten the key and prints somehow.

He better go check on the man. Nightwing pulls the log onto his computer and then severs the connection, double checking he leaves the crime-scene exactly as it was.

Taking cover for a moment, he spies on the officer outside watching the store. Nightwing waits for the cop to fumble with his thermos and refill his cup again and uses that moment of distraction to get out the store and swing out of sight, disappearing into the shadows. The police’s channel stays quiet and no one is the wiser he was even there. To make sure things stay that way, he accesses the interface on his gauntlet for the Cam-Killers he planted and sets them to self-destruct. He waits for three seconds for the gadgets to disengage from the cameras and harmlessly crumble to ordinary dust, and then launches into the night sky, heading west towards Mister Rojas' place of residence.

  
Nightwing lands on the roof belonging to the listed house. It’s a decent place, looking out on a patch of green on the other side of the street. He strips off the leather jacket and leaves it behind the chimney to pick up later. He is not sure what he will find inside the buildings, but plans to look more like a vigilante and less than a masked robber, to not scare the civilian unnecessarily. By the way things look, the man is victim enough already – times like these, Dick would prefer the old yellow R or the blue wings on his chest that identify him as a good guy and reassure people. These times, it’s hard to tell, with his outfit all black and only a cape and cowl away from looking like Bruce’s.

Nightwing drops down and lets himself into the apartment. The interior is nice enough; designer-crème colors and harsh masculine edges dominating. There are pictures on the wall and on the dresser, of a woman who smiles like she doesn’t smile enough and three children, over the years in different ages and scenes. They are the only signs this house is actually a home; it doesn’t feel lived in, too clean and sterile, like out of a catalogue. He switches his lenses to infrared and takes a look around. The first floor is mostly cool and lifeless, except for the plumbing, wiring and electronic appliances radiating warmth. Through the ceiling however he sees a lonely human shaped heat signature and finds his way upstairs.

Nightwing stalks along the hallway and ends up before a door, which leads into a spacious bedroom.

“Hello?,” he calls out softly, before he steps into the room and turns on the light. On the king-sized bed lies a squirming man, naked but for a pair of pajama pants. His hands are latched to the bedpost with cable wrappers, his legs secured likewise and a strap of tape covers his mouth.

“Mister Rojas?,” Nightwing inquires, and the man blinks frantically, pupils blown with fear and eyes lined with dried tears.

“I’m here to help,” he ensures, voice low and soothing while quickly scanning the man over. He can’t see any external wounds and aside from being cold, scared, in shock and recently assaulted, Rojas appears unharmed. “I’m going to remove the tape. It might sting a bit.”

The man nods, and gently Nightwing tugs it off. The adhesive gives up easily; already half dissolved by spit, tears and cold sweat and leaves only a smarting red swelling behind.

“Y-You…”

“Just a moment now,” the vigilante comforts and slices the cable-wrappers with the bladed edge of a Wing-Ding.

“There we go. Are you all right?” He wraps the blanket around the shivering man.

Rojas laps over his chapped lips. “You’re one of them masked freaks.” The jeweler’s voice is rough, and normally Nightwing would hurry to bring some water.

Instead, he only snorts: “Yeah, real smart. Give me a sec and I’ll cuff you right back up.”

“Wait!” Rojas kneads his trembling hands and regains a bit of his composure. “Wait, sorry, didn’t mean it like that,” he weasels. “Getting mugged once a night is enough for me. A fella has to make sure who he’s dealing with.”

The man doesn’t look sorry, just scared at the threat. Nightwing doesn’t like the attitude, but can’t help feeling sorry for the guy. He decides to cut the man some slack; after all he spent the last few hours dead afraid and hasn’t even heard the news about his shop yet.

Nightwing sighs. “All right – You wait here while I find you something to drink and when I get back we start over and you can thank me.”

Rojas nods dumbfounded and the vigilante leaves for the bathroom next door, to return with a filled toothbrush cup.

“Here,” he offers it and Rojas almost empties the cup in one gulp. “Better?”

“Th-thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Are you hurt?”

The jeweler absently rubs life back into his strangulated limbs and pats himself down. He winces when he tries to shake his head.

“Let me see that.” Nightwing bows over, and carefully palpates the skull. There’s a bump forming at the occiput with a small trail of dried blood. Rojas has stopped trembling and not spilled a single drop from his drink. Nightwing reaches for a small flashlight in his utility belt and checks the man’s pupils. After a moment, they slowly contract. His pulse is elevated, but steady. Rojas must have been hit hard and needs medical attention. Nightwing activates his gauntlet’s display and calls for an ambulance.

“Do you remember what happened?,” he asks and watches the man’s mimics.

Rojas takes a moment to think. “I was getting ready for bed, at eleven I think. Just undressed, when I heard something downstairs, so I went to check. Thought I forgot to turn off the TV or something. I had a beer or two so I wasn’t sure anymore. Barely got to the stairs and then…” His hand trails to the injury at his head. “I woke up like this. Tried to pretend I was still out cold, that’s what they do in the movies, right?”

Nightwing nods and motions to continue.

“He wore leather gloves, could feel them cold and slick at my hands. Think he must have just finished tying me up. I saw him when he left, burly guy in a ski mask.” The description fits Malcoms. Apparently he got the prints required to unlock the security system first hand. No lead to the Cuckoo, but that’s fine. He’s only gotten started with the investigation and might get somewhere by retracing Malcoms’ steps.

“You did everything right,” he assures Rojas. “You’re safe now.”

He gets the jeweler another cup of water.

“Thanks. Sorry for... I didn’t get your name.”

Nightwing can’t answer that question; secret identities are one thing, but on paper Nightwing’s retired and no longer active. He bends the truth a bit: “I’m – with the Justice League. On vacation right now, so no uniform.”

“You have powers?”

“Just my dashing good looks.”

“So, like Green Arrow?”

Ouch. No offence to Ollie, but he’d rather be compared to Bruce. Or another member of his family, including himself.

“Yeah.” Nightwing spots the flashing lights of an approaching ambulance outside and ducks out to direct the emergency responders to the bedroom.

Rojas smiles lopsided and is no longer quite as sickly pale. “As masked freaks go, _you_ are alright,” he amends his earlier statement.

 “Duly noted.” He grins, and slips out of the door into the still darkened hallway. The moment he arrives downstairs, the doorbell chimes with perfect timing. Nightwing lets them inside, gives a short gist of the situation and when they aren’t looking for a second pulls a Batman. He grapnels onto the roof, straightens his jacket out and pulls it back on.

He changes the frequency of his comms and listens in on the paramedics via a bug he planted on Rojas, while thinking on his next move. He has the footage from the robbery to dote over and it’s nearing almost three in the morning now. Still, Nightwing isn’t quite ready to call it a night, even if he knows that decision will bite him in the morning. One last stop, he decides, to get a look at Malcom’s body at the morgue. After that he’ll hit the sack and review the evidence tomorrow, maybe wake up with a new hunch to follow.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Vague but graphic description of a corpse.

Nightwing hitches a ride on the ambulance, which is carrying Rojas off to the nearest hospital for a CT scan. The jeweler is in competent hands, so the vigilante jumps off two intersections later, shooting a long line onto a skyscraper. In Gotham this move would be risky: The amount of crazies in that city, you never know who is waiting up there to cut your cords. He sails through the air and for a moment once again wonders if the emergence of this special breed of criminals is really combated by vigilantes like him – or caused by them. A stupid question, really. He knows full well the rise of powered individuals brought forth heroes as well as villains – the more deranged of them just tend to love the drama and challenges of nemeses and flock towards cape capitals like Gotham or Metropolis. With the cesspool of the underworld accumulating elsewhere, New York is mostly held in the hands of official law enforcement, like Peter. In this city, long lines are less of a risk – and help traverse Manhattan that much faster. Tonight, Nightwing is accumulating a lot of miles.

He scales the top of the hospital tower and stops on the roof. The door leading up to the Heli-pad is secured, the ventilation shafts however are easily accessible – especially the one Nightwing frequents. Dressed like this he can’t exactly walk past the reception desk and the times he came by during actual visitor hours he can count on one hand.

He unlocks the vent and drops in. The vigilante crawls through the chute, removes the grate when no one else is around and then ropes down the elevator shaft. With a few stops in between, he reaches the sublevels – and the morgue. He takes his lab coat out of a hollow spot in the ceiling, and leaves his mask and jacket in its place. In the breast pocket the white coat carries a pair of glasses and a magnetic card.

Neal puts the glasses on, smooths his hair out and walks right into the secured area with the air of someone being exactly where he belongs.

“Evening, Terry,” he greets the security guard on duty.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Doc.”

The guard motions to put his book down and open the door for him.

 “Didn’t have any night shifts lately, so I actually got some sleep. I’m just back and I already miss the sun.”

“Just a matter of habituation, Doctor Morgan.”

“Don’t I know it?” Neal sighs for effect, but the fatigue showing on his face is real. “How is the correspondence course coming along – Business Administration, was it?”

Terry waves the book he is perusing. “Got an exam next week.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Yeah, thanks Doc.”

Neal – or rather: Doctor Henry George Morgan – slips through the open door into the lab. He logs onto the computer and finds the newest entry, still listed as a Doe. The file on him is yet empty, except for the time of arrival and the compartment he is being kept at.

Neal pulls on a pair of latex gloves and easily finds the assigned slot. He wheels out the stretcher and takes a look at the body:

This is without a doubt Malcoms, the ski mask he wore wrapped in an evidence bag and his face visible. Neal takes a moment to admire the fact the criminal went through the trouble and wore custom made shoes, giving him an extra inch and a one size smaller footprint. He hasn’t been dead long, and Neal can still move the limps, even if rigor mortis has already started to settle in. As he saw on the security footage, there are barely any signs of struggle, except for a lesion on his elbow. The leather gloves he wore are smooth and didn’t catch on any materials, at least not to the naked eye. Neal trusts the medical examiner to do his job – while Bruce made sure he has a basic understanding of anatomy and can stand in as a field medic, he is no expert in forensics. He will check the official report later and is simply here to get a more visceral first impression of the murder.

Malcoms neck and face are more of immediate interest to the vigilante. Neal finds the skin at the deceased’s throat bruised, with petechiae around the larynx. He assumes the eyes are blood-shot, too, but the lids are already too stiff to pry open without damaging the corpse. Neal examines the skin at the throat and the underlying cartilage more closely, finding it give under his touch: Probably crushed. Malcoms was a big man, and it takes considerable force to strangulate someone of his stature, holding firm enough to not only lift the man up but also crush any chance at resistance. Neal lays his own hands over the bruises, emulating the murderer’s grip. There are unmissable indentations at Malcom’s back of the head, where probing digits dug deep into the muscles. The murderer had long fingers to reach that far.

Neal carefully realigns Malcoms heavy head to get a better view at the injury in the back – and hears the faint telltale grind of fractured bone. The wounds, too, are deeper than he first estimated. Neal dabs at the depth of the wound to collect a sample of blood and tissue. Whoever did this was strong: Meta-level strong. No wonder Malcoms went out so quick and quiet.

Neal repositions the corpse and wheels it back into the refrigerated compartment. He has faced Metas before and so far always come out on top – but he worries for Moz. The shorter man is deceptively versatile and able to look out for himself, but Neal doesn’t want to take any chances. He decides to finally call it a night and check on his friend.

 

When he arrives back at his apartment, Neal could use another shower, and more than the three hours of sleep he has left. He smothers his wind-swept hair and removes the mask, before he slips in through the balcony-door and locks it behind himself. Mozzie is still where he was one hour and a half earlier, having kicked the blanket down. He stirs in his sleep, alerted by Neal’s presence.

“Just me, everything’s fine,” Neal assures and watches his friend fall bag into sleep. It only does take a moment, until rhythmic snoring fills the apartment again.

Threading softly, Neal walks into his changing room. He makes a stop at the fridge to grab some cold leftover pizza, which he munches down while peeling out of his clingy body armor. If it were up to him, he’d leave the darn thing on the floor to air out for a night and just fall into bed straight away. He doesn’t have the luxury however and can’t decide, what would be worse: Peter or Moz finding the suit. He can all too well imagine the look on his friends’ faces. Peter in his federal agent mode, stern and cold, full of disdain for the criminal and professional liar who once again proved his trust was misplaced. Moz would probably sport the same expression, only more angry and would explode into his face before dropping from the radar, even by Bat-standards.

The thought alone makes Neal wince and hurry to clear away his costume. He sprays it with something Bruce developed, an aerosol to banish bad odors and dissolve organic material without damaging the armor. He hangs the suit into a clothes bag, which is sewn into an old pinstripe, for camouflage. Then he slips back into his anklet – and makes sure it actually is where it belongs. One time he mistakenly wore it right, after a particular long night and two foiled League of Shadows assassinations. Luckily no one noticed even if Peter definitely _sensed_ something was off, and he slipped to the bathroom first chance he got. A mistake he’s never going to make again.

He places the slack tracking device around his ankle and murmurs Zatanna’s magic words: “ _Tif thgit_.” Occasionally it still takes him several tries to wrap his tongue around the syllables, but this time at least he gets it right the first time. The anklet shrinks down to its original fit, familiar dead weight on his leg again. Finally he gets to slip into his soothingly cool pajamas, drags himself to his bed and is dead out cold the second his head hits the pillow.

 

At seven a.m. sharp his inner alarm clock goes off and Neal drifts back into consciousness. There’s a faint smell of coffee and a chill in the air that help him wake up faster. The couch is empty and the door to the balcony open, letting in the cool draft. Mozzie is sitting out there, pot in front of him. His friend can’t be up for long yet, because he just lounges there in quiet, not working on anything yet.

“Mornin’, Moz,” Neal calls out. Mozzie merely nods in lieu of a greeting, back turned. Neal disappears into the bathroom, taking a quick shower and changes into dress pants and a tank top. He also takes the time to conceal the purplish tint forming underneath his eyes that betrays his nightly activities. With still wet hair, he walks outside and strolls over, to steal himself a cup. The dark nectar is no longer hot but still pleasantly warm.

For a few minutes, they just sip in companionable silence and watch the first rays of sunlight struggle through the wisps of smog and mist hugging New York’s streets. The way golden light displaces the gray of early morning is something Neal often contemplated to capture on canvas. Maybe one day he will, maybe borrow Childe Hassam’s stroke of brush. For now however, he just bathes in the early warmth and lets the wind dry his hair.

 Mozzie sets his empty cup down. “Has your nightly excursion brought forth any new revelations?”

Neal drains his own cup and banishes the lazy smile from his face.

“Only one, really: Whoever killed Malcoms was a Meta or at least had enhanced strength.”

For a second, Mozzie’s eyes widen. Powered individuals are always bad news, especially in their business.

Moz blinks and straightens what little hair he has left. “Your intel any good?”

“Sadly, yes. I checked the footage of the heist and the morgue myself.”

His friend falls quiet, thinking on the consequences that entails – and, if his expressions is anything to go by, his impending demise among them.

Neal pads Mozzie’s shoulder reassuringly: “Hey, we don’t know if that’s whoever followed you. Maybe we are dealing with two different people entirely: Can you describe your tail?”

Mozzie ponders the question for a moment. “I’m – not sure,” he admits. “I was mostly focused on running away. I remember he was... about my size.”

“Five-eight, you said,” Neal reiterates and prompts his friend to continue.

Moz crunches his forehead in confusion. “I didn’t get a good look at them, I think. It was dark and as I said…”

“You were busy running.”

“Mmh.”

 

Neal gets out his phone and opens a grainy still from the security film. The resolution on his wrist computer is miles better, but this will help to clarify matters.

“Think that’s him?”

Moz cranes his head and watches a few seconds of blurry footage.

He blinks confused. And blinks again, more slowly. “Maybe, it’s hard to say with the quality and angle of the camera. And they weren’t wearing that shawl then – not like this at least. A scarf covered their lower half of the face. But the trench coat looks similar enough. I didn’t see much else: Brown hair a bit longer than you wear yours and a pair of semi-rimless glasses, rather narrow nose stem.”

Neal snorts. “Didn’t get a good look, huh?”

“In case it slipped _your_ memory, I do have perfect recall.”

 

Neal surely didn’t forget about that. He mostly did not bring it up out of nagging worry for his friend. He is relieved Moz apparently recovered and is back in form.

Neal just grins, maybe a tad too professional. “Good thing you keep reminding me. Can you help me sketch him?”

Moz shrugs. “I _was_ busy running. I can try, but as I said, I didn’t get anything else. Hand me a picture, though, and I confirm it for you.”

“We can work with that,” Neal assures.

“There is still the other job’s the Cuckoo took over. I will look into them more detailed, check for any indications of enhanced strength and other connections.” Mozzie decides, straightening his posture.

“Then what am I going to do?”

“You, _mon frère_ , have shackled yourself to the dreadful concept of a nine to five- _job_.” He says it in that voice reserved for finding cockroaches in kitchens and dog droppings under soles.

“It’s still the FBI – and in this case I’ll have easy access to the case reports on the other Cuckoo victims.”

“I am not taking the Man’s sloppy seconds when my life is at stake.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t use them as a starting point. Besides, how else do you want to gather intel – without leaving the house and risk running into the Meta who is looking for you?”

Moz sighs. “Fine, you win.”

“Thank you.”

 

“I will, however, need my laptop. And my miniature Shishi-Odoshi to help me meditate.”

“You know you can use mine. The laptop, that is.”

“I’m touching that infernal piece of WayneTec over my dead body. You do know they are factory-set to record anything and send it to Wayne's underground facilities?”

Neal does actually know, and his very own piece of technology is only slightly different in that it is broadcasting directly to the Batcomputer’s server. Not that Bruce would ever use the personal data gathered in anything other than an apocalyptic case of emergency. The EYE Protocol simply exists as another contingency plan.

“Aren’t you mixing it up with LexCorp?”

“The same evil under another name. I have it on good authority they are growing clones underneath Metropolis, feeding them the extorted data and replacing anyone who dares act up against their capitalist agenda.”

“Definitely LexCorp.” Neal is glad Moz is diverting his substantial genius to mostly white collar jobs. The little man has the mind of a super villain, and that image alone is truly terrifying. Still, he’ll relay that rumor to Clark, make sure it’s really just that.

“Naivety like that is the reason you landed yourself four years and counting– while I remain a free man.”

 

 This is an argument Neal can’t win. He gives up. “Suit yourself, Moz. I just thought you wanted to watch the surveillance footage yourself, on a decent screen.”

“Then what are you waiting for? My temporary stash is in a garage on –“

“If you want for Peter to find it, I’ll get to it right now.”

A constipated look flits across Mozzie’s face. “No, you’re right.”

Neal kneads his temples to soothe the raising headache. “Give me a minute,” he excuses himself and disappears to the bathroom. He makes a short stop on the way, to download the file from his gear to a regular thumb drive and grab the old, modified Zepto notebook from its hiding space. The hidden drawer at the bottom of the dresser is lined in metal, creating a Faraday cage. Growing up with Bruce imprinted on him the need to always be prepared for anything – and people thought, Superman was the Boy Scout off the League.

 

Neal returns onto the balcony and drops the laptop on the desk in front of his friend.

“Will you at least use this?”

Moz adjusts his glasses and carefully examines the computer, even prying open the cover on the back. Apparently satisfied, Moz nods. “An adequate compromise.”

His friend boots up the notebook and Neal gets up, knowing it will take a minute or two.

He fills himself a bowl of cereal and lets it soften in milk.

“Anything for you, Moz?,” he calls over.

“As long as it doesn’t include milk.”

Right, Mozzie’s lactose-intolerance – that tends to disappear at times, like the chocolate Neal has lying around unsupervised.

“I can fry some eggs and bacon.”

Moz nods regally, nose only inches from the screen. Neal can only assume his friend is reading the sequences of code flitting across it.

 

He leaves Mozzie to it, and puts his attention to the pan on the stove. When the bacon is finally crispy and the egg seasoned and done, he flips it onto a plate and returns outside. His cereal reached the perfect mixture of delightful sogginess and crunchiness where it didn’t touch the milk and Neal starts munching.

Moz has by now plugged in the thumb drive and is running the video.

“Why would you ever put up with Wayne’s corporate trash, if you have this baby? She even has a custom OS!”

Neal sits down next to his friend and digs into his meal.

“Can we stop discussing this already? It’s my own choice. And speaking of mine: You could at least pretend you respect my passwords.”

“It’s your fault for using _Flying4106_ more than once.”

Neal winces. Moz doesn’t know what the date refers to, and he’d like to keep it this way. It is one of the few reminders of his life as Dick Grayson he keeps around and the memory of his parents is not something he is willing to give up. “It’s personal,” he defends the admittedly weak password.

“It’s an unnecessary risk.” Moz clicks his tongue in disapproval.

Rather a calculated risk, as he keeps the really important stuff additionally secured by biometrics. Moz however doesn’t know that, so Neal just shrugs and smiles.

“If you don't like it, you are always welcome to use _that infernal piece of WayneTec_ ,” Neal quotes back at his friend.

“That I will not,” Moz protests and grabs for the fork to dig into his breakfast.

Neal motions for the laptop to stop the footage still running. Three different angles of a murder aren't the most tasteful entertainment during a meal. Plus, he figures, Moz doesn't need the grizzly reminder of the sword of Damocles looming over his head. With the threat of a murderer on his trail, he is understandably on edge, and they don’t quite fall into their usual rhythm as smoothly. What usually amounts to playful banter fills the air between them with tension, even if Neal tries his best to ignore the dissonance.

 

“Leave it on,” Moz degrees morosely

“Are you sure? We can watch the tapes later.”

“To suspect your own mortality is to know the beginning of terror, to learn irrefutably that you are mortal is to know the end of terror.”

“If you say so,” he concedes and leaves the recordings running. Neal gulps down another cup of coffee, hiding his expression behind the mug.

He doesn’t quite agree with whoever said that, even if he can see the point. He doesn’t want to think of himself as jaded – that’s more a Bruce thing to be – but he saw death often enough it no longer fills him with fear, and instead with sadness and guilt.

 

For a few minutes, they both chew in silence, keeping an eye at the footage.

It's the fourth time Malcoms' is being strangled, when Moz drops his fork and reaches for the touch pad.

“That's odd,” his friend notes. He lets the footage wind back two seconds and pauses, right when the killer assaults Malcoms.

“Can we zoom in on this?”

Neal doesn’t see yet what warranted Mozzie’s attention, but he nods. “We can, as far as the resolution allows. Give me a sec.”

He opens the footage in another application, stopping at the very same frame.

“Zoom in on what exactly?”

“His eyes.”

 

Neal selects Malcoms' face and zooms in as close as he can, before the image becomes too pixelated. With the press of a button, he changes the contrast and lets the program smooth out the edges, which is as close to 'enhance' as it gets. Paired with the surprisingly good quality of the surveillance system and a fortunate speck of light from outside hitting Malcoms face in the just right angle, there really is something to make out – even if it is not the miracle reflection of the murderer or an identifying label. Luck like that would be a truly frightening, reality-warping superpower.

“His pupils,” Neal observes. “They are … contracted.” This is odd indeed; not only was it dark in the store, but Malcoms was just startled by his attacker. They should be blown, by all rights.

He whistles in appreciating. “Good catch.”

 

They get interrupted by a sharp rap at the door. Neal slams the laptop shut and sweeps it under today’s unread newspaper, just in time before Peter enters his flat.

“Hello Neal,” the agent greets, and his eyebrows lift in suspicion when he spots the second person on the balcony. “Haversham.”

“Suit,” Moz replies tersely. Apart from this, he makes a point of ignoring the federal elephant in the room and instead focuses on wolfing down the rest the rest of food on his plate.

“I hope I misheard that bit about a ‘catch’. You are not using fish metaphors, are you?”

“I am exercising my right to remain silent,” Moz declares and crosses his arms and gets an elbow for his troubles.

“Play nice,” Neal reprimands and then gives Peter one of his honest looks. He carefully keeps any trace of a smile from his face.

“No haul in sight,” Neal promises soberly, but then breaks into a grin. “Although I’ll rise to your bait and admit I feel gutted by so much distrust.”

The look Peter shoots him is deadly, to someone who didn’t grow up with the guy who had his glare patented. “No puns in the morning – or ever.”

“Oh, for cod’s sake!”

“Neal.”

“No sense of humor. Just go with the flow. ”

“That’s it. I’ll have the Marshals limit your radius, if you don’t stop this instance.” It’s not a real threat, even if Peter is genuinely annoyed.

“You wouldn’t!”

“That’s were insubordination gets you.”

“Insubordination is part of my charm,” Neal objects and then sighs dramatically. “Fine, you win. Do I get off the hook if I offer you a cup of truly amazing coffee?”

Peter’s forehead furrows up in the telltale sign of a forming headache.

“On the condition that you shut up this very instant. And only because June’s coffee _is_ amazing.”

Neal gets up to bring the promised beverage and Moz joins him, to avoid being alone with Peter.

 

“That, _mon frère_ , was truly painful to behold.”

“All in the name of a good diversion,” Neal shrugs. “Plus, needling Peter is fun.”

Moz snorts. “Our definitions of fun widely vary. I’ll take my leave.”

Neal lowers his voice a bit further, so there’s absolutely no chance Peter, who loosely followed them in from the balcony, might overhear the next words. “What about the Cuckoo?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll just head downstairs to say hello to June. I won’t set a foot outside.”

“Send me the list with the other victims. I’ll borrow the files and we look through them together.”

 “Not a word to the Suit,” Moz hisses and glares daggers at the agent.

“Thief's honor.”

Moz nods in acknowledgement and ducks out.

 

Peter observed the exchange with blatant suspicion and accepts the coffee with a question.

“Where’d the short one run off to?”

“You know Moz reacts allergic to law enforcement.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But now that he’s gone, there’s some unclaimed bacon on the stove. You’re welcome to help yourself. I’ll be just a minute and get changed.”

Before Peter, who obviously isn’t satisfied with that answer, can get a word in Neal heads off towards his closet. He already apprehends Peter’s inevitable snooping and tries to think up plausible alternatives to the truth. After all, he promised Moz they’d deal with the matter themselves, without the involvement of the Feds.

Neal changes into a white cuffed shirt. He slings one of his favorite ties around his neck; elegant satin with blue and black stripes in just the perfect hue Tim gifted him. – In exchange he dropped of a certain map he may have allegedly stolen and replaced with a forgery. The priceless original now hangs above his little brother’s desk, much to Bruce’s chagrin. He straightens out the fabric, tucks it into place with a pin and throws on his suit jacket. With a look in the mirror, he fixes his hair and makes sure his appearance is impeccable as usually.

 

When he gets back, he finds the bacon gone and Peter brooding on his couch, probably over Mozzie's and his own secretiveness. Damn the agent’s impressively sharp instincts.

“Headache?,” Neal pretends obliviousness. “I have some painkillers, if you want.” While he speaks, he puts everything back into place and the used dishes into the cleaner.

“What?” Peter absentmindedly massages his temple, as if he didn’t even notice the building tension before. “No thanks,” he declines however and shakes himself out of his thoughts. “If you’re done here, my car is waiting and _you_ have to _work_ for your freedom.”

Neal snorts and flips his hat on. “You really do enjoy bringing that up _every_ single time, don’t you?”

“I do. It's one of the few perks of having to babysit you.”

“That - and the coffee. And, of course, the pleasure of having,” Neal pauses dramatically to give the quote more weight, “ _a new breed of forger, technological virtuoso with a classical artistic foundation_ for company.”

Peter's gloomy expression finally cracks to reveal a smug smile.  “Virtuoso I caught. Now get in the car.”

“If you insist.”

 

The streets are busy, and that suits Neal just fine. Peter is fully occupied with traffic and ranting at other drivers, which means he doesn’t have the concentration to switch into full-on-interrogation-mode and corner Neal for an explanation. It’s also fortunate, because Neal can spent the time and think a bit more on Malcoms and his murder: The contracted pupils might be a lead, or at least help further reconstruct the events of yesterday night. First, he needs an analysis of the blood sample he took.

Neal gets out his phone and logs into the Medical Examiner’s servers. He opens Malcoms’ file and starts reading, but doesn’t get far.

With a curse, Peter steps on the brakes. Neal is thrown forward. He holds onto the dashboard to stabilize himself and wisely doesn’t comment on the ungentle ride.

“Turn signals exist to actually be used!,” Peter growls at the BMW in front of them, hitting the horn in frustration.

Neal fishes for the phone he dropped into his lap and continues reading. He trusts Peter’s driving skills, especially with the additional training the agent received. The report on Malcoms has been added with the man’s name as well as the cause and time of death. No blood analysis yet; maybe they won’t even bother with this straightforward a diagnosis and the tapes from the jewelry store as evidence. Neal could call home, ask one of his caped friends to run the sample for him.

Not now though, because they are already pulling up to the FBI building.

The agent and his CI get out the car and Neal smooths out his shirt. “Thanks for the lift.”

Peter grunts. “Didn't want you to be late _again_.”

Neal glances at his watch. “Well, we’re early which not only breaks my streak but also puts me a few minutes in the plus.”

Peter calls the elevator and they step into it. “Speaking of early,” Peter finally breeches the topic Neal dreaded: “You and Mozzie, together at that hour in the morning…”

“We hung out yesterday and Moz had a glass too much, so he stayed over,” Neal clarifies quickly. It’s an easy enough lie, without unnecessary details.

“Aha.”

“You don’t bel – never mind, what are we doing today?” Maybe a diversion will work. Peter loves talking about his job and their new cases.

“I have a bunch of insurance fraud cases for you to go through.”

Neal signs dramatically. “I hate insurance fraud. You wear a _gun_ – How is your job so _boring_?”

“Or I can order Jones off his stake-out and we take over from him.”

“Only marginally better, but I’ll take it.”

“And then you’ll have plenty of time to tell me what exactly you and Haversham are up to.”

The elevator dings as they reach the floor of the White Collar division. Neal holds open the glass door with a bright smile, faking enthusiasm.

“I love insurance fraud.”

“You’re not running a job?” Of course that’d be the first thing Peter suspects.

“Sorry, can’t talk right now, I have a case to get to.” The files are thankfully already lying on his desk, and Neal makes a point to grab the one on top and flip it open.

“You know I’m still going to ask you about that in detail later. – Are you planning a heist?”

Neal pouts and goes for the puppy-eyed look even Peter has a soft spot for. “Jesus, Peter. Do you want these solved today or what? And no, I am _not_ planning a heist.”


	3. Chapter 3

 “I know how we’ll catch the Cuckoo: We’re planning a heist,” Neal proclaims excitedly, busting into his apartment. He’s stewed over the case all morning. Peter’s insurance frauds were easy enough to solve and he carefully pretended still brooding over them while looking into records he had no business with. Now, during his lunch break, he had rushed over to visit Moz and share his revelation.

Moz looks up from the laptop he is hunched over and blinks slowly. “You’re insane.”

“The term you’re looking for is completely _cuckoo_ ,” Neal gleefully corrects.

“My earlier assessment still stands.” Moz is definitely not amused. “Of all the stupid stuff you pulled in the past – which is saying a lot, given your current _employment_ – this is right up top. I will not put myself into danger and out there when I should stay in hiding.”

Neal slums down next to Moz on the couch. His little friend is currently digging through online news archives, on the trail of other murders that fit the profile.

“Come on, Moz – We both know you don’t want someone breathing down your neck for the rest of your life.”

“Better the devil I know.”

“Than no devil at all?”

“You know that’s not how the idiom goes.”

Neal shrugs, smiles and grabs an apple out of the fruit bowl on the table. He chews carefully and forces himself to sober up. “Listen – I know it looks bad right now and we’re at the disadvantage here. We might narrow it down by finding the connections between the other victims, but the Cuckoo ultimately remains the proverbial needle in the haystack. Plus, he knows who you are while our chances to identify him before he can strike are … not good. We need to level the playing field.”

“That will be hard considering we’re going up against a meta. Cast aside the sheer difference in power, we do not do that. Stuff like this attracts the capes.”

“Never stopped us before. We’re still in business and not once did we cave in to someone simply because they had powers.”

“What about Catwoman? She beat you to the Emerald Eye in Casablanca.” That Selina did, even if it was more of a team-up than an actual competition. Before Neal Caffrey was born, Dick Grayson took his pointers from the femme-fatale cat burglar. He couldn’t bring himself to deny his thieving mentor when she had asked so nicely – and when Bruce had been waiting outside.

Neal smiles fondly at the memory, and grins: “And she’d scratch my actual eyes out if she knew I have its sapphire twin stashed away. Besides, she isn’t a meta.”

“And next you will claim the Batman does not actually have bat powers.”

Neal doesn’t even bother to hide the grin forming on his face. “Maybe he does – maybe he doesn’t. Either way, that’s not my point.”

“Which is instead?”

“That power alone doesn’t matter: Brains do. I recall a certain orphan from Detroit who took on the Mafia – and won triumphantly.”

Moz smiles fondly, mirth crinkling his eyes. “I do accept the compliment – but don’t think I will give in to base flattery.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Neal offers smoothly. “I was just proving a point; we can take on the Cuckoo and whatever he got, as long as we go about it smart. Also, it will be fun.”

“Fine, humor me: What did you have in mind?”

“It’s preliminary at best for now, first we need more info on the Cuckoo. But I’m sure there is _something_ connecting the victims, a way the Cuckoo learned about the jobs. We need to figure out how, and then use it to feed him what we want him to know, lay out bait. Lure him into a scenario we completely control, arrange the confrontation on our terms, with contingencies in place.”

“I am not playing the bait.”

“You aren’t – not completely, at least. You are just the icing on top.”

“Which does nothing to endorse that plan of yours.”

“Hey, you’re welcome to throw your pitch in, if you have something better.”

Mozzie harrumphs. “Fine, let's assume for one moment I would actually agree to partake in this madness: What did you have in mind?”

“With the Cuckoo’s disregard for human life and his tendency for violence, we need a place without civilians in harm’s way, no human variables. Ground level with many exits, private property at best. Also, the promise of loot but no real money in play, just in case something goes wrong and we have to bow out.”

“That completely defies the definition of a heist, but it’s sensible.”

“I thought we might revive Ernest Kingston.”

“One of your old, burned aliases.”

Neal nods. “Failed investment banker with a penchant for illegal possession, wanted by the FBI, which fits nicely into the story. Until now the Cuckoo took valuables that are easy enough to fence:  Diamonds, jewelry, straight-up cash. I heard Kingston is laying low in New York right now, with five mills in Golden Eagles in his sleazy hands.”

“Go on, I’m listening.”

“Say you were in desperate need of money, to get out of town and forget about our not so friendly friend in the comfortable warmth of the southern sun.  An old partner Kingston double-crossed sold you the location of his stash.”

“I recall Kingston enjoyed his sports. Horse riding, was it?”

“I was leaning towards a tennis court: More elite clientele, and less ground to cover.”

Mozzie hums in thought. “Good enough of a cover, for a start.”

“So, you're in?”

“I can't exactly leave you to your own devices. You'll need my help planning it out.”

Neal finishes the apple, cleans his hands and grins. “I knew you wouldn't be able to resist - which is why I took the liberty and borrowed a few things from the FBI.” He takes out his wallet and pulls a slim flash drive from it, placing it on the table. It contains snapshots of the Bureau's physical and digital files on LeGrange, Fiero, Miller and Santiago Moz mentioned yesterday, as well as two more cases Neal stumbled across that shared the same modus operandi.

“You haven't told the Suit?”

Neal shakes his head. “Not a word - although Peter suspects something is going on, luckily not yet what. I'll keep him in the dark as long as I can.”

Moz frowns disapprovingly. “We learn from history that we learn nothing from history.”

“George Bernard Shaw,” Neal identifies the quote and easily shrugs the hidden accusation of. “You know I don't con friends. I won't lie to you or to Peter. We'll just have to stay one step ahead of him and get this done before he catches up.”

“And since you will be busy playing lap dog, the actual work will fall to me.”

“Thank you. I'd be lost without you, Moz,” Neal pats his friend on the back and gets up from the couch. “I have to get back to the office, before Peter becomes even more suspicious and puts a surveillance team on us.”

“Of course, you go run to your masters, can't have them wait for you.”

Neal rolls his eyes, the display of immaturity only deepening the scowl on Mozzie’s face. “You know my job doesn't take precedence over your safety. If anything happens, call me and I'll come over as fast as I can.”

“To do what exactly? We're talking about a meta.”

“At the very least, I make for a good distraction.”

Moz inclines his head in acknowledgement. “That you do.”

Neal smiles and flips his hat on. “Don't worry, we'll get this Cuckoo.”

“Yeah, yeah, now run along.”

 

That Neal does, even if he isn't heading straight back to the FBI. Contrary to what he implied to Moz, he still has a few more minutes of his lunch break and one more stop to make. Neal hails himself a taxi and gives the driver his directions.

His destination is an imposing skyscraper in Midtown, its fronts consisting entirely of dark mirrored windows and a glowing W emblazoned over the entrance. The local division of Wayne Enterprise is not a place Neal often visits: He never quite liked this part of his life as Bruce's ward and is glad that his little brother took over the position of the heir as Timothy Drake-Wayne as well as the heap of responsibilities accompanying that title. Tim is much better than him at juggling corporate idiocrasies - Neal did his share of that, but prefers actual juggling, maybe even with live grenades.

The taxi pulls up in front of the building, and he tells the driver to wait for him as he pays her the first portion of his fare, before strolling inside. A quick flip through his hair lets his locks fall more freely and he slings his jacket over his shoulder despite the first chills of fall in the air, instead of actually wearing it. In addition, he pulls a pair of sunglasses out of the suit's pocket, placing them on his nose in rich-heir-style. His pose is more lax now, too, letting a bit of his circus upbringing show he never let Gotham's High Society bred out of him. It's a strange feeling to slip back into what's supposed to be his own hide, be again who he once used to be. It fills him with warmth for the family bonds he can claim in this persona and all the fond memories coming with it, but weirdly, also makes him feel constricted, stirs the desire to break free and run away. He likes being Neal Caffrey, leading a vagabond life, without having to restrain his abilities, doing what he pleases. Granted, the anklet is keeping him back and so are Peter and Moz, but they are his friends, bonds he chose for himself. Being Bruce's ward had always meant hiding who he was, bending to the whims of others, catering to public image. He might miss Bruce, Alfred, Tim and Barb, but he doesn't miss the lifestyle. Even if sometimes guilt catches up to him and reminds him he could be doing so much more for the world than catch white-collar criminals and slurp Italian brew.

The thought of Peter helps in these moments. The agent would agree that, yes, Neal doesn’t deserve June and the luxury she shares with him. That’s true, because he really doesn’t. June is a gem of a person and Neal never once got the feeling she wouldn’t have offered the same generosity to a civilian. Peter then would continue to point out that infamous con-man and forger Neal Caffrey is doing a lot for the world already by not doing _anything_ , and his work with the FBI is not only helping people but also within the law for once. Not that Neal can confide in the agent with this specific worry of his, not with his supposed background and Peter’s ignorance of his true past but the thought itself is comforting.

 

He upstages those thoughts the moment the giant glass doors to the lobby slide open for him and schools his expression. The receptionist spots him immediately and gets up with a bright smile.

“Hello, Mister Grayson. It’s good to see you again. I hope everything is well?” His name on another person’s lips helps him feel more grounded, more like himself again.

“Yes, thank you, Grace. But please call me Dick.”

The receptionist blushes and uncomfortably runs her fingers through her blonde hair and the first grey streaks in it.  “My apologies, sir.”

He asked her to use his first name before and doesn’t expect it to stick this time. Instead, he just shrugs it off. Her discomfort is understandable; after all, Richard Grayson is still technical her boss, even if thankfully ranked after Bruce, Lucius and Tim and all but forgotten by the general public.

He wishes Grace a good day and moves on, nodding in greeting to the security guard overseeing the lobby. Jeremy, James, whatever his name is, nods back and calls the elevator for him.

Dick steps inside and waits for the doors to close behind him, before he activates the secret panel hidden besides the floor control. He presses his palm onto the scanner and when a green light flashes up in confirmation clearly pronounces his identification code; RG-04.

 

The elevator heads downwards, towards an unmarked sublevel. When the doors slide open, they reveal chrome-covered walls and the impeccable equipment only second to the actual Batcave. Even if Neal rarely uses it, the facility was specifically outfitted for his extended stay in New York and features a bit more than the standard bat cache. Not only does it hold a training area, an armory with spare uniforms and diverse advanced weaponry and gadgets, but also a fully equipped med-bay and a ginormous, high-tech power house of a computer. Everything a vigilante’s heart could possibly desire.

Neal heads toward that computer and activates the lab equipment. He logs in and puts the sample he took from Malcolm’s neck into the scanner.

The machine powers up and gently sucks the dried flakes of blood of the test stick, spreading it out thin enough the cells no longer overlap. Neal confirms it is a blood sample and waits for the preliminary scan to finish. Then he follows the machine’s instructions and adds a careful measure of isotonic solution to the sample. The equipment lights up in confirmation and the images on the screen split up into several windows, each corresponding with a different testing method. The first image, generated by interference microscopy, is already forming on the screen. Everything else will need more time, so he orders the machine to send him an abbreviated list of results to his phone and the complete analysis to his wrist computer.

Now Neal can't do anything but wait and as his break is almost over, he leaves the hidden lair and resets the lock and defense protocols, before heading back upstairs.

Once he leaves the building the delicious smell of an Israeli diner wafting over to him. His stomach rumbles in response. He gives in to the impulse, after all he only had an apple and the cereal at breakfast today and running around the city in a mask burns up tons of calories. He walks up to the store that wasn't there when he last checked by and after his order is done, a quick bite confirms the food is as good as the smell promised. The falafel he bought is deliciously spiced and he devours the first one on the spot, taking a second one for the road. At least he intended, to but the lady driving the taxi is adamant he can either walk or eat, so Neal leaves the wrap in the plastic bag during the ride.

 

Neal exits the elevator onto the twenty-first floor and waltzes through the glass doors with three minutes to spare, perfectly on time to the end of his break - which was anything but an actual break. He really could use a small respite now, but if the day at the office continues to be as boring as its first half, he can relax and then ponder this Cuckoo problem a bit more.

He isn't that lucky however, as Peter catches sight of him before he reaches his desk.

“Neal!” The agent calls for him up from the elevated entrance to his office, beckoning his CI with the infamous two-fingered gesture.

Neal groans but treads upstairs to his superior and friend anyway.

“What is it?” Neal hides behind a smile for the moment.

“I’ve been rummaging through cold cases and wanted your input.”

That answer takes Neal aback for a moment; he had expected more questioning, but maybe Peter has decided to turn a blind eye for now, so he lets his guard down more.

“Count me in! - Anything fun, maybe an elusive cat burglar or a forger I can embarrass?”

Peter chuckles. “Nothing as exotic.”

“Whatever it is, probably still a trade-up from petty fraud,” Neal decides with a shrug.

“There’s nothing petty about two-million-dollar schemes!”

Oh, Neal knows that alright. There is no such thing as a victimless crime, even if he himself sometimes entertains that illusion. Whenever money is involved, it always hits the people with little to spare the hardest. Still, he has a point to make: “Just because there’s money behind it doesn’t excuse it being boring and unimaginative.”

“Neal.” The agent groans, voice just shy of a warning – which Neal chooses to ignore.

He rolls his eyes and makes sure Peter catches the expression. “I help solve these cases, so I should at least be allowed to bitch about them!”

“No, what you should do is recognize that even a boring crime is _still_ a crime.” Peter doesn’t sound genuinely unhappy or annoyed - more like he mostly scolds because it is his duty.

“Ha, so you agree it is boring!”

Peter snorts into his cup and sets it down on his desk with a clunk.

“Point,” he admits good-naturedly. “Which is why I thought you could help decide on a cold case to warm up. If it turns out to be boring, this way it is at least entirely your fault.”

Neal beams and accepts the offered olive branch: “Sounds great. What do we have?”

Peter pats at a stack of files and Neal takes a seat on the desk right next to them. He picks the first one up and flicks through it. The case detailed inside is a break-in into a security company during which a safe had been emptied. At the time construction work had been done, but every one of the workers had had an alibi, as well as the contractor and his sons.

“I bet the daughter did it,” Neal quips, only partly in jest. The contractor had a daughter and as poorly sketched as she is in the files, he can see a possible motive, a marriage coming up. No one ever bothered to take her alibi, either and she would have had ready access to the blue prints, codes and the building itself.

Peter's eyebrows furrow as he grabs the file from Neal and sinks into his office chair, hacking away at his computer.

 

Neal meanwhile takes the next file - and puts it right down again as soon as he sees what it is about; an Egyptian statue he is sure he saw in Selina's apartment the last time he paid her a professional visit. He makes sure Peter is still focused on his computer and then taps out a quick text to Bruce who can decide what to do with that information for himself; which mistress truly holds his loyalty. For a moment, Neal feels bad for Selina, because, who is he kidding, that lucky lady is going to be Justice. On the plus side, that leaves Neal with the perfect gift for the next occasion, a copy to help her cope, ha, with the loss of the original.

Neal continues and picks up the file after. It contains the details of an unsolved bank robbery, dating nine years back. A banker had been shot when the robber supposedly got nervous and passed away before police and ambulance reached the scene, leaving behind an orphaned child. The culprit had never been apprehended, and to top things off one of their persons of interest by the name O'Brian got beat to death in his own home. A gruesome affair that ultimately led nowhere; the killer of the clerk and possibly her ex-boyfriend too was never identified and the person behind the stolen money and lives never been brought to justice.

Neal thumbs through the files again, taking in the details. The ex-boyfriend's face had featured indentations that matched the model of gun used for the robbery. That and the past relationship to the dead clerk, Laura Steep, had linked him to the case - and got Neal thinking. Either this had been personal, or O'Brian had seen something he wasn't supposed to see. Both factors narrowed the field of suspects down to people in the vicinity of both victims, maybe even a connection through more than mere acquaintance.

“Neal?”

Peter's voice pulls the CI out of his thoughts and he blinks. “Mmh?”

“The daughter actually is a solid suspect; her current address is listed in the Hamptons.  She is living pretty large for a secretary. I'll have an agent look further into it.”

“Shame that is way out of my radius.”  Neal does not even bother pretend acting upset. Unless new information surfaces, the case is as good as solved and until then frankly a waste of his time. The bank robbery however... Still temptingly mysterious.

“Which one do you have over there?”

“Bank robbery and murder of Steep and O'Brian.” Neal closes the file and flings it towards Peter's outstretched hand.

Out of curiosity he opens the one underneath - and audibly coos at the sight that greets him. The very first picture shows a stunning rose-cut diamond, with a delicate sea green hue. It is set in what appears to be silver, formed to fine leaves. Around the centerpiece, smaller clear diamonds are arranged to form four petals, the largest outlining, the smaller ones filling the shape. The piece is a real beauty, even if its glow is diminished by the fact the photo was taken through a glass vitrine. According to the file, the flower has a diameter of three inches, and Neal estimates the blue diamond in the center to weigh forty carats, at most. A small fortune doesn’t even cut it; _that_ is a retirement plan in itself, the one big thing every thief dreams of. And one apparently got lucky, because the gem arrangement disappeared three years ago, never to be seen again.

Peter looks over his shoulder.

“Knew you’d like that one,” he smirks. “Not by any chance admiring your own work?”

“I wish.” Neal smiles wistfully and taps at the date. “Besides, I have a waterproof alibi.” Namely his supposed stay in jail that is anything but waterproof, but Peter doesn’t need to know that.

“Just checking. So, what about the Steep case?”

As interesting as this case had seemed - that was before Neal spotted the diamond. The sparkling missing beauty is more enticing than any simple shoot-and-run bank robbery could ever be. Surely Peter knows his informant well enough to know that. Neal furrows his brow in thought; maybe that’s the entire point of this conversation. Peter appears deceptively simple and Neal himself underestimated the agent on more occasions than he cares to admit.

“You said I get to choose, right?," Neal probes the terrain.

“I did.” The bland look he gets instead of a knowing grin only serves to deepen his suspicions.

Something is definitely fishy. Peter is rarely so compliant, letting his consultant decide which case to take and even offering stolen diamonds as the proverbial cherry on top of the cake. Especially, since Neal spent the better part of the day avoiding Peter and refusing to disclose what his meeting with Mozzie was truly about. It isn’t like Peter to just give in, to an extent that lead Neal to the assumption Peter is physically incapable to ever give up on any target he sets his sight on. So maybe is just another way to get the information, tempting Neal and having him lower his guard.

Holy diamond theft, Peter knows him too well and this case is enticing in all the right ways. With the willpower deserving of a green space ring, Neal still manages to put the file down. He carefully wears a wry smile to belie his hesitancy to do so and meets Peter's eyes.

“You know I never could resist a diamond. But Mozzie is sitting this one out and you can't accept that or stop prying, I'll gladly get back to insurance fraud.”

Peter's corners of mouth crinkle in the tiniest expression, which confirms Neal’s suspicion. This was a con. He almost feels proud.

“Or you can just tell me what you two are up to and come clean.”

“What, and skip the fun part? You love finding things out for yourself,” Neal retorts bitterly. And, he snarks in his thoughts, we both oh so love this ridiculous dance of mistrust and secrets. It's just how we roll.

“I'd damn right love to find out what secrets you two are brooding over this time. Mozzie staying the night and you running home during lunch instead of the usual clandestine meetings in the park...”

Of course Peter checked his tracker and Neal shoots the agent a bleak look for his troubles “The nightingale is dead,” he replies morosely.

“So the nightingale _wasn't_ casing any office buildings in downtown?”

“Only trying out a new venture.” Neal rolls his eyes and points towards his desk, where the unopened wrap still waits. "Falafel - You want a bite? I already ate one on the way, they're great.”

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Neal shrugs. “Does this mean we're done now?”

“Oh no, not until you tell me what is going on.”

 

Neal sighs and decides to give in, because his friend sure as hell won't. “Fine, if you absolutely must know: Moz is feeling particular paranoid which is the reason he is holed up at my place and we met there instead of the park today. It's just an episode and will pass soon enough. He just doesn't want you - anyone, really, especially not the Government - to know.” He can feel Peter's critical gaze on his features, testing for any signs of lies and Neal is glad he stuck closely to the truth.

“Give me your word this isn't another Project Mentor.”

“It really isn't.”

“Or another music box.”

“That neither.”

“Or anything illegal of any kind.”

“No,” Neal denies and catches his own tell; his expression softening ever so slightly. Whatever he does is rarely completely legal, either as Nightwing or as Neal Caffrey. Despite the lie, he just hopes Peter won't notice.

But Peter wouldn't be Peter if he didn't, if the still furrowed brow and narrowed eyes any indication.

Quickly Neal amends: “Maybe a little bit illegal. I'm only helping Mozzie. Making sure it really is only paranoia and following up on a trail or two. He made me promise not to tell you, so that's everything you'll get from me. I _swear_ everything is fine and I will tell you immediately if that should change.”

Peter thinks on this for a moment and then, to Neal's surprise, actually nods. “Deal, just this once. Behave and don't make me regret this, because if you do...”

“I get my old cell back?,” Neal supplies Peter's favorite threat.

“Exactly.”

“Basically business as usual.”

Peter shoots him a sharp look, just shy of a batglare. “Best behavior."

"You know me - always." Neal really means it. Contrary to popular belief, he isn't actively trying to disappoint Peter every chance he gets.

“Precisely the reason I worry.” Peter hands the files back with a sigh. “I’ll hold you to your promise and we still need a new case.”

Neal smiles and affectionately pats the file. “Then give the bank robbery to Jones or someone else. We’re hunting down the _Lunar Lotus_.” 

As well as the Cuckoo. He was going to have a lot on his plate, but Neal never was anything if not good at multitasking – and keeping his priorities straight. Just because a beautiful jewel beckoned didn’t mean he forgot about his friend in trouble. For the moment it would just be something to keep him and Peter busy during work, a distraction he could turn his full attention to once the thieving killer was dealt with.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I don't intend to get anyone's hopes up and not owing up to them: The missing Lunar Lotus won't actually feature in the rest of the story. I just found the jewel fun to think up and felt it fit with Peter trying to get the information from Neal.  
> Hope you enjoyed the story so far!


	4. Chapter 4

When he gets back home, Neal finds Moz brooding over by the door to the balcony, where he constructed a big canvas out of taped together pieces of paper, glued to a big Styrofoam slab.

Neal drops the chicken he bought on the way home onto the counter and intently studies Mozzie’s contraption. The plate is precariously balanced on his easel and would tip over if it weren’t leaned against the glass windows.  Neal appreciates Moz didn’t permanently decorate his walls by taping the map to or punching tacks into it, even if it is a true piece of art. Well, at least it would fit right in at the MoMA. Dick preferred his art harmonious, with a certain dab of realism, portraying the hidden beauty in life. Neal however had learnt that anything provoking emotions was art – even if only through the pain accompanying an exorbitant price tag. 

Mozzie’s contraption features one giant map of New York and its vicinity, constructed out of smaller print-outs. Across the maps, threads in different colors spread, connecting points all over the city and focusing in places Neal easily recognizes; subway stations, the Yankees stadium, Central Park and a few others. Everything is hold in place by a color-coded arrangement of pins, the complexity of the system overwhelming.

“Nice conceptual art,” Neal whistles appreciatively.

Moz really went all out. The display in itself is impressive enough, but gathering the information it is based on the real feat, especially without leaving the house.

“Thanks,” Moz mumbles distractedly, scrolling through a page on Neal’s laptop and bringing another strand into position.

“Red – that’s?”

“Santiago.”

Moz threads the yarn through a paperclip which already holds a green and blue twine. Both originate from Grand Central.

“Subway lines,” Neal deducts, and Moz nods.

“How did you get all this?”

“We live in the digital age,” Moz lectures. “Facebook and Google watch your every step. I merely watched the watchmen.”

Neal clicks his tongue. “Socrates would be so proud.”

“One could argue I’m merely doing my civic duty.”

Oh, Peter would definitely argue that point. Neal however can’t help but agree with Moz; he himself spent most his life doing his _civic duty_. That’s what being a vigilante is about after all. Apparently Moz would make as frightening a hero as a villain, but Neal could never force this lifestyle of theirs on someone else. To the contrary, he’d rather give his own life than have his friend sucked into the vortex of hurt and responsibilities that comes with a costume. This is the reason he simply smiles instead of voicing his reals thoughts.

“You’ve been busy.”

Moz bristles, maybe because of the undertones still hidden in Neal’s voice, maybe because he obviously is still hard at work, organizing his notes as they speak. “As excellent as your wine collection is I can hardly spend the whole day going through it.”

“And am I glad for that.”

“How did things go on your end?”

"Not marginally as well as on yours I'm afraid. The blood test went through, but no trace of anything helpful. No sedatives, narcotics, drugs or poisons. As promising a lead as it looked, it sadly turned out a dead end."

"What about the Suit?"

Neal winces. “I bought us a bit of time on the Peter-front. He promised to give me room, but you know how it is: I give him two days until he sets Diana on my heels anyway."

Two days is a tight deadline but should be enough to at least prepare everything for their confrontation with the Cuckoo, maybe even take him down. On the off chance it isn’t enough time, it never hurts to have a trained agent at your back when going up against a criminal, even if Neal would rather not endanger any of his friends.

Moz only grunts at that and Neal decides to give his friend room to concentrate on his work.

"I'll leave you to it and fix us something to eat."

Neal changes out of his work attire and then sets the chicken to simmer in one pot, sliced vegetables in another. Once it is cooked and the chicken pulled, he’ll add the noodles and throw everything together. The result will be nothing masterful, far from Alfred's cuisine but low maintenance enough to get a bit more work done in the meantime.

He already did his fair share of research at the office, whenever he felt he could get away with it and no one noticing. Thus he had been able to single out the perfect location for their trap: The Saint Bernadine Racquet Club co-ran by one Quentin Thompson, old contact of Nick Halden. This acquaintance was forged, back when Nick had been working for Adler in acquisitions and been profitable both to him and more so to the investment banker. Neal figured the man now owed him extra for not having Adler buy him up and lose everything in the progress.

The club is located in Riverside Park, out of the way enough to not draw unwarranted attention, yet easy to access. It is made up of five fenced in green courts, partly roofed over and connected with the club house. The building features extensive lockers, one of which Neal planns to use as the alleged hiding place for the equally phony bullion coins.

Now he only needs an in, a subtle way of approaching Thompson and rekindling their acquaintance. Fortunately the man has a talkative secretary who accidentally let slip Mister Thompson wouldn’t be available tomorrow evening as he has a dinner reservation.

 

Neal gets out his phone, making a call while he watches dinner boil.

It only takes three rings until someone picks up.

“Hello, _Sara_!,” Neal grins cheekily into the phone.

There’s a tired sigh from the other end. “Hey Dick – What is it?”

“Just caught myself thinking of you, so I thought I’d grab the phone and ask you out for tomorrow evening. Do you have any plans yet?”

There’s a choked laugh from Barbara. “Does this line ever work?”

“You’d be surprised. Does it work with you?”

As answer, Barb only snorts. “Is this purely a social call or did you want something else?”

“You know me too well: Both, actually.”

“Spill it.”

“What do you say to dinner at the La Grenouille?”

“I say: _Sounds too good to be true_ and _What’s the catch_?”

“I may not yet have a table.”

“Then do what you do best: You’re the con-man.”

“Yeah, but you’re the better…” Neal trails off, not willing to out Sara’s true identity to Mozzie.

She picks up on his hesitation. “You have company?”

“Only Moz.”

 

At his name, his friend looks up, his features scrunching up. Moz clearly disapproves Neal is once again getting sidetracked by a woman and loathes the female distraction.

Neal stirs the vegetables and refills the water in the pot, then ducks out with a small excuse. Only when he made sure the balcony door is closed behind him, he finishes his sentence: “You’re the better hacker of the two of us, with the full power of the batsystems at your disposal. O mighty Oracle, I beseech thy power.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line and when Barb finally degrees “On three conditions” Neal sighs in relief.

“Name them.”

“First: Your treat.”

“That was a given.”

“Second: We do a patrol together sometime soon again.”

“If I don’t have to wear my old colors, I’d love to.”

Barb chuckles. “You don’t – but I just got the perfect idea for the next time you ask a favor.”

“I dread it already. Dare I ask?”

“A hint for you: _Not your old colors_ still leaves a pretty wide field. I believe my own fall into said field, too.” Her voice is so full of glee, Neal isn’t sure if she is serious. He decides to play it safe.

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll think twice before I ask something of you the next time.”

“But back to this time: The third condition is you tell me what this is all about, full disclosure.”

“It’s a bit of a long story, actually. Can I give you the gist now and the details tomorrow?”

He can hear her hair rustling against the phone as she nods. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Alright, here it goes: Moz and I are looking for a criminal; meta, I suspect, with superior strength. Our plan is to lure him out and bait him to a place of our choosing. Just that we haven’t access to that place yet. That’s where tomorrow's mark comes in: Quentin Thompson, fifty-seven, banker, chairman of a tennis club and former business acquaintance of your favorite con-man.”

Barb laughs: “You sure? Maybe I met someone else to hold that title.”

“In our line of work? I doubt it. Even if, Bruce would have the poor sod locked away in an instant.”

“Fair enough. How did you meet the guy?”

“As Nick Halden, back when I tried to get to Luthor through Adler.”

As always the name sounds bitter on his tongue: Adler was only a criminal, nothing “super” involved and yet he had pulled his pyramid scheme right in front of Neal’s nose. Thousands lost their fortunes, because he had been blind to the truth and only been hounding after the super villain.

“You’re still beating yourself up over that? Don’t, because you managed to thwart that bald asshead’s plan. Knowing Lex he would otherwise be President by now.”

That’s a truly scary thought and Neal hastily shakes it off.

“Be that as it may, the goal tomorrow is to charm Thompson and gain access to the tennis club house, possibly even at night.”

There’s hurried keyboard tapping in the back and Barb goes silent for a moment. When she speaks again, there’s urgency in her voice: “Seems we have a deal.”

“Thank you. Is everything alright?”

“Just work. I really have to go.”

“Be careful and see you tomorrow.”

Barb merely hums her agreement into the line and then severs the connection.

 

Neal flips his phone shut and heads back inside, only to be met with a glowering Mozzie. He sighs and decides to ignore his friend’s thunderous expression. Instead, he heads towards the stove, where the chicken is by now mostly done. He throws the noodles in with the vegetables and starts peeling the chicken from its bones, feeling Mozzie’s constant stare at his back.

When Neal can’t bear it any longer he puts the knife down, cleans his hands and turns around to face his friend.

“What is it?” Neal makes sure the exasperation carries into his voice.

Moz opens his mouth to protest, then pauses in thought. Neal recognizes the expression is purely for dramatic effect; knowing his friend, Mozzie had already rehearsed whatever speech he was going to deliver down to the letter.

“What is it?” Moz finally echoes incredulous. “Your careless betrayal in my deepest hour of despair! I believed you an ally, a trusted friend but now that I am truly in need of one, you capriciously turn your back, easily forgetting about me for another of your fruitless loves!”

So that’s what got Mozzie riled up. Neal’s own temper is flaring up in response and he interrupts his friend, before the man can launch into a new salve of dramatic, deeply hitting accusations.

“Can it, Moz. My private life is topic non grata. We had that talk and you don’t get a say in it. This call actually was about you and your current plight, not my _fruitless love_ -live.” Neal’s nostrils flare, as he spits Mozzie’s cruel words back. His knuckles start to hurt from the tight fists he is forming and only then his own emotions register with him. Good thing he put the knife down first. Neal makes a conscious effort to breathe against the rage building inside. Moz doesn’t mean it, he tells himself. It is merely fear speaking out of his friend.

Neal unclenches his jaw and sets to continue. His voice is still wavering, so he lets it fall into the deep gravel of a bat to keep it under control: “Just for the record, I resent the hell out of that remark and that’s an argument we _will_ have once this is over.” There’s no doubt about that in Neal’s mind, just as there is no doubt they’ll bring down the Cuckoo and somehow eventually reconcile their differences.

“And in case you were wondering: Sara will be part of my cover tomorrow, so we can secure a location. You’re welcome, by the way.”

For the perfect dramatic exit, Neal now ought to storm out of the apartment, even if it is his own. But dinner is almost ready and Neal is too hungry, though he no longer has an appetite.

Without bothering to season, he throws everything together and serves himself a portion.

He eats leaning against the counter, not willing to sit down with Moz for now and when he is done wolfing his dinner down declares: “I’m going out.”

As Nightwing, he gets to let of some steam, by punching criminals until he feels better. Then he sets about to start some rumors, by asking questions about Ernest Kingston and his supposed gold coins and pretending to look for Moz. By tomorrow everyone of note in the criminal underworld should have heard of the Golden Eagles, laying a solid foundation for their scam. He’s already looking forward to that – and the date with Barb, even if it is for this case. Well, mostly for the case and still more than a bit for himself, whatever Mozzie said about his relationships. Damn Moz for his astute observations, his accusations cutting all the deeper because they mirror what Neal sometimes thinks, too.

 

* * *

 

 

That same line of thought still whispers at the back of his mind, when he has the taxi pull up into an alley underneath Brooklyn Bridge, only a few feet from one of Manhattan’s Zeta tube entrances.

Barb is already waiting for him, stunning green cocktail dress complementing her hair, and the sight alone banishes all his doubts into the dark corners they belong. Her legs really do go all the way up – which is good, of course: Wouldn’t do to have a gap between her legs and torso. He gets out and holds the door open for her.

“Beautiful as always, Miss Ellis,” he compliments which earns him a chaste kiss to the cheek.

“Right back at you, Boy Wonder” she murmurs into his ear and easily slips past him into the cab, her hips swaying like liquid satin.

Neal pulls himself together; this evening is part of their scam first and a date second and Batman - heck, he himself - would have his head for slacking off on the job. 

He isn’t a con-man for nothing and manages to wisp a professional, easy smile onto his face instead of ogling like a teenager. And Barb has the courtesy to pretend she doesn’t notice the occasional latter.

Instead, she demands he makes due on yesterday’s promise so Neal uses the time to debrief Barb on what exactly has been going on, disguised as harmless small-talk just in case their driver is listening in.

 

Their cabbie manages the impossible and actually finds a parking spot directly in front of the restaurant. Barb gets out of the car and Neal hastily pays for the taxi and then follows her lead. By the time he catches up to her, she has already reached the white baldachin screening the door and is waiting for him. Neal tangles through the crowd on the street and then offers her his arm, like the gentleman he most of the time pretends to be.

In her heels, Barb is taller than him and she grins down at him, her eyebrows rising in mirth.

“Nice of you to join me.”

“I’d be a fool not to.”

Her elbow lightly bumps into his side. “You know that isn’t exclusive, right?”

Neal fondly smiles, well, like a fool in response, not really sure what to retort. She is right, after all.

Together they enter the restaurant, being greeted by the golden glow of colors and warmth inside and the hostess.

“McCormack,” Barb offers the name of the reservation she has wangled and they are lead to a table for two.

 

“What happened to the real McCormack?,” Neal inquires once the wait staff gives them some privacy.

Barb smiles. “The lucky guy got the chance to take a tour above the city in a private plane, which makes for a much more original engagement proposal than a fancy restaurant.”

In Neal’s opinion, planes are boring if you don’t end up jumping out of them and just another method of transportation – but for a civilian being in the air like this was probably a dream come true.

“When he tried to cancel his reservation, he must have dialed the wrong number. – Man, I’m sure glad you’re footing the bill.”

“Bruce’s trust fund is,” Neal corrects with a shrug. He so rarely touches the money, and if he does for a change, it only ever is for a case or a job. However broadly, their dinner falls into that definition. Besides, Neal doubts Barb would let him pay with even a dime earned in a less-than-legal fashion.

Thanks to Bruce, he is floating in uncomfortable amounts of money and just for the heck of it – and his own palate - decides to order one of the better wines in the restaurant’s already tasteful assortment. Until Thompson shows up for his reservation in half an hour they could as well make the most out of an evening together and just enjoy themselves. Forget about everything but the warm golden glow and Barb in front of him.

Neal raises his glass, the red liquid with the aromatic bouquet swaying inside. The first thing that comes to mind is a cheesy line about too many intoxicating reds for his own good – which is stupid, even by his standards. Instead, Neal tones it down just a bit and toast: “To a lovely evening and an equally so lady!”

 “Likewise.” She pauses and snorts. “Except you’re definitely _not_ a lady: Rather an annoyingly charming idiot.” Barb meets his glass with a clink.

Neal shrugs: “I’ll take what I can get.”

 

They both order their dinner menu per the chef’s recommendation and spend the time waiting by sharing anecdotes. Barbs talks about her own team she sometimes runs missions with, a group of heroes Neal hadn’t even been aware existed. Apparently the self-titled Birds of Prey went way back to days when Nightwing was still The Team’s official leader and had evolved from occasional movie nights and meetings in cafes. Now they were apparently running their own females-only network and teaming up on occasions. The way her eyes sparkle when she retells how she, Zatanna and Bumblebee rained punishment down on Monsieur Mallah and the Brain, he actually regrets he no longer runs with others.

Before melancholy overcomes him, Neal in turn shares tales from the office and his adventures with Peter.

 

They are halfway through the first course, when Neal spots who he believes to be Quentin Thompson. The man looks roughly the same than five years prior, if one ignores he has visibly aged; he’s lost a few hairs on his forehead, and gained a few pounds around the hips in return. Even so, most of his bulky frame is still made up of muscles, filling his custom-tailored elegant suit. He comes closer and Neal can see he still has those same, hard eyes, though they are now hidden behind a pair of glasses and squeezed together, to better discern the details in the soft light of the restaurant.

The woman on his arm, his wife Charlize, looks pale in comparison to his healthy taint. She hasn’t changed a bit, but that might be due to the power of make-up and hair dye.

The couple makes their ways through the tables, steering right for the table next to their own, which had only been reset minutes ago.

It might be sheer luck, but Neal doubts that; not with Barb in charge of their reservation. The woman is brilliant.

“Damn, I love you,” slips out of his mouth, before he even registers it, unable to rein the comment in.

Barb chokes on her salmon and sputters to regain her breath.

“A simple _Thank you_ would suffice, you know?”

Way to go and make things awkward. There are lines you don’t cross and come back from, and that not only refers to killing but apparently also to supposedly casual, friendly flirtations. “Sorry, thank you, you’re awesome.”

“I know.” Warmth is still dabbled across her cheeks and she hides behind her class of wine until she manages to sober up: “I think you should get to work, _Nick_.”

“Yeah. – Yeah, you’re right, _Kathleen_.”

 

He is now glad they had forgone the classic “engagement in a restaurant” method to attract Thompson’s attention. When he had first though about how to approach the man, he had decided against the engagement, because that was not only horribly cliché – which was not bad per se, as it made people buy into the idea more easily, but as such beneath him – but also something for people without the spare change to eat in a fine restaurant without a special occasion. He wanted to project a certain wealth, as money first and family a strong second are the things most important to the man.

He waits until the Thompsons have ordered their dinner and something to drink; Quentin sticking to table water, his wife nursing a Mimosa and then pretends to flag the waiter down as an excuse to look over to the other table.

“Quentin!,” he leans over. “What a pleasant surprise! How are you?”

Thompson turns around, disgruntled about the interruption but relaxes minutely when he recognizes Neal.

“Nick Halden.” He gives Nick a once over and apparently decides he is impressed by what he sees: “You look good for a man who lost everything to his name to a Ponzi scheme.”

Nick smiles pleasantly at that and raises his glass to his girlfriend, Kathleen, using the chance to introduce her.

“Ah, a man on a leash.”

Barb nudges him underneath the table, seconding that statement and Nick forces a polite laugh: “Not quite yet. – But Fortune favors the intrepid.”

 “Intrepid indeed. You had nerves, shattering my chances with Adler.”

“That was business, nothing personal,” he defends himself.

Thompson shrugs and laughs jovially. “Don’t worry, no hard feelings. If anything, I have to thank you for that.”

He knows Thompson is taking in his choice of drink and his cover’s girlfriend. The man has a penchant for those who share his taste for the good things in life. And he likes being important, the focus of interest.

This is why Nick grasps the opportunity and diverts the conversation to Thompson’s sons; to further get into the man’s good scores. The elder is a captain with the army, the younger only a semester short of graduating at Harvard and so they both easily lend themselves to praise.

Only, when Thompson is truly enamored, Nick moves into the final phase of the evening. He slips Kathleen the cards and keys he lifted from the man, when she excuses herself to the bathroom, to create copies of anything they might need.

Then he moves in for the kill: “Say, do you still play tennis?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everybody, for reading and supporting my story to this point - especially mielipieli and Quinis, who already left the most lovely comments.  
> I'd love to hear some more feedback, so if you enjoyed this, even more so if you didn't, maybe pretty please let me know and drop me a line or two? :)


	5. Chapter 5

Neal pulls a stiff Mozzie to his side, their backs pressed against the cold, hard lockers of the esteemed Saint Bernadine Racquet Club. Whatever recent differences they had are all but forgotten:  Some trap this turned out to be! Neal has half a mind to curse, would it not defeat the purpose of staying silent and in hiding:

He wonders just when things had started to go south and how he had ended being the one hiding in the darkness; prey instead of predator for a change.

Just yesterday everything had been smooth sailing, a beautiful evening with Barb and his mark Thompson pliant like butter in his hands:

 

* * *

 

 

_“Say, do you still play tennis?”_

_Thompson brightens up at the question, his complexion reddening further in excitement._

_“In fact, I do!” He launches into a retelling of his best recent matches, and Nick allows him to ramble for a while. He nods at the appropriate places and interjects small comments to entertain his mark and steer him until he reveals in his own pace he basically owns a court. Nick wisps an awestruck expression onto his face and pretends to be overwhelmed by a sudden idea, lost for words:_

_“It’s just – that’s perfect!” He brushes his hands over his face, partly hiding his expression as if struck by a sudden epiphany._

_“What is?”_

_“Sorry, um – “_

_Thompson’s wife Charlize too is brimming with curiosity._

_“Nick, don’t dare just tease us - put us out of our misery.”_

_Thompson grasps his wife’s hand over the table. “You heard the lady.”_

_Nick pretends to think on that for a moment, then empties his glass in a swing, as if needing the additional courage._

_He admits: “I’ve been planning to propose to Kathleen… You know me, I not good with a racquet? But Kathleen, she’s a goddess on the court. Could you – no, sorry – the last time we talked, I kicked you out of a deal, I can’t ask something like that, forget I mentioned anything.”_

_“The lady suits you. You might actually have grown a conscience, Nick.”_

_Barb, who is listening to the conversation through his phone and waiting for her cue to return from the bathroom, enters the dining room with perfect timing. Nick looks up and doesn’t even have to play the besotted look flitting across his face._

_“And, much worse, a heart. She’s the kind of girl who can do that to a man.”_

_“And a bit more, I wager.” For that remark, Charlize playfully slaps her husband’s hand, the scandalized look on her face poorly played._

_Thompson pulls his hands away, but only to get a small case from his suit. He passes Nick his card._

_“Forget about Adler and the past. You’re a decent chap; call me, and I’m sure we can work something out.”_

Neal had taken the man up on his offer that very same evening, right after seeing Barb off at the nearest Zeta. He'd rather have spent the night with her, but duty was calling: Gotham needed her Batgirl and with Bruce away on League business, so did Tim. Not that Robin wasn’t able to look after himself, mind almost as sharp as Bruce’s and, if he needed to, absolutely vicious in a fight. Neal just likes to know his brother looked after, even if that had meant cutting their evening short.

That, and Neal took his friend’s plight too serious to be slacking off with Barb, despite their argument and Mozzie’s deep cutting accusations.

He had arranged a meeting with Thompson at the club for the next morning, and had called it an early night after a short patrol.

 

_He waits his mark in front of the club house. The man arrives just shy of being late in a silver Targa, gravel spraying up as he hits the brakes and parks like – well, someone who owns the place and likes to show it. There's no excuse for taking up three spaces and no matter how deserted the parking lot is, that’s just bad form. Neal swallows down his distaste in favor of being the Nick Halden Thompson reacquainted with: He pretends to be politely disinterested in the display and pretends even better to be secretly impressed._

_Thompson grabs his sports bag from the passenger seat and greats Nick with a grin and hearty handshake._

_Together they walk the final steps to the clubhouse and the door is opened for them with perfect timing. Thompson offers a nod as greeting to the valet, who discreetly removes himself once he made sure his client does not require further service._

_Nick feels relief at the man’s departure, glad he will not have to bear constant, however well-meaning, eyes at his back: He plans to inconspicuously try out the keys Barb helped him copy. Plus, the feeling of being watched sets him on edge. Dick should be used to the attention of serving staff by now, what with having grown up as Bruce Wayne’s ward and with a personal butler, but is still makes him uncomfortable. Alfie is something different entirely; not only is he family more than employee, he also doesn’t take bull from anyone, ruling the household with an iron hand and having no qualms to voice the opinion he is possibly – definitely - being the only sane person in it. Alfie has a point, as the only person underneath the roof of stately Wayne Manor_ not _playing dress-up at night._

_Thompson doesn’t notice Nick’s discomfort and introduces him with grand gestures to the foyer. Nick whistles, not only to carter to his mark’s ego, but because the place isn’t half bad:_

_It is well designed, paneled in light wood tones that, with a touch of diffuse, unobtrusive lighting, elegantly contrast against polished steel; modern, functional, yet not without class._

_The lobby alone is clearly intended for clientele with good taste and deep pockets: It is a large room with equally big windows, a sitting corner and a well-stocked bar._

_The rest of the building Thompson is only too eager to show is designed in the same style, from the club room overseeing the courts outside with its large TV screen to the well-equipped gym. During their tour, they stay mostly undisturbed: It is after all a Sunday, and as such in the late hours of morning peacefully deserted. Too late an hour for those following an iron regime and working out every morning, the time is still too early yet for those who start their free day at their own pace and leisure or visit the club to socialize._

_Neal takes advantage of that fact as he lets Thompson lead the way; when he is subtly looking over the man's shoulder as he punches in codes and disengages locks, making sure the data Barb cloned from the chairman’s phone for him pulls through. Of course it does, because she is the best._

_It takes a few more sleights of hand to check that the keys she made imprints of also fit, but Thompson is passionately sharing tennis anecdotes and not looking too hard at Nick's hands when they stop in front of supposedly locked doors._

_The private tour of the grounds paired with Neal’s liberal attitude towards sealed off areas results in more intimate knowledge of the locale than hours brooding over blueprints could have granted. It also comes with the immense benefit that it’s more fun – and the in comparison minor one he gets to use that opportunity to create a few hooks in the security system, to turn their planned nightly visit into a walk in the park._

_At the end of his tour, Thompson is none the wiser to what had been going on right underneath his nose, and when he challenges Nick to a round on the green, the con readily accepts._

* * *

 

 

Neal grimaces; the place really had been that much nicer and more welcoming in the light of day. Turns out a killer meta on the loose is seriously bad feng shui - especially if you weren’t expecting one.

Heck, even when he had visited the hotspots pointed out by Mozzie’s map, nothing had suggested things weren’t going as planned. Neal was a pro after all; he did stuff like that all the time, in whatever identity he wore for the occasion.

 

* * *

 

 

_“You’ve got to be joking! No way a job like this just walks into town!”_

_Neal is pacing through Grand Central, vividly talking into his phone. He’s put on a slight southern accent, with a hint of Spanish pronunciation to match his more exuberant gestures. Flailing his hands about while he speaks helps him occupy more space and thus attract attention without having to raise his voice overmuch. People already are giving him strange looks - which is good. He wants to draw just the right amount of eyes and ears, without appearing deliberate._

_It’s the third place he did that routine and Neal is currently annoying Moz by improvising. Not that his friend deems to recognize that with an answer, but Neal knows that special brand of pouting silence._

_Moz isn’t going to breach the topic or apologize on his own and Neal not willing to just forgive and forget. But this is work and their trap for the Cuckoo is too far along to pay heed to their personal differences. They still aren’t on speaking terms and keeping the communication to a bare, impersonal minimum._

_Thus, the open line is just a precaution; for what exactly Neal doesn’t know yet and hopes to not have to find out. But as a Bat, being prepared never hurt anyone._

_“You know me. I can always use a bit of cash on the side. Your information is good, right?”_

_Neal moves towards a coffee shop, covering more ground as he talks and raising the chances of being overheard by just the right person._

_“Where?”_

_Again, there’s only silence from the other end of the line, and Neal supplies the missing half of the dialogue in his head, to match the pacing and his reaction adequately._

_In this case, the adequate reaction is an incredulous laugh. “In a tennis club? You’ve got to be kidding me. Well, Kingston always was a peacock and an idiot to boot. – Hold on a sec.”_

_He puts the phone down against his chest, as he places his order: Plain black nectar to go._

_“Sorry ‘bout that. Go on, I’m listening.”_

_Neal hums in thought, pretending to be too engrossed to notice he is echoing bits of information under his breath. Just enough for an interested eavesdropper to understand what is going on if he puts his mind to it for a minute or two and does a bit of research. They stay just shy of presenting everything on a silver platter, which, granted, is a tad risky: They can’t know for sure who will take the bait, but he paid a few visits in the dark of night to keep the usual suspects away from anything with Kingston’s name on it. Even without blue wings on his chest, Neal has earned himself a reputation around these parts._

_Either way, they only want a clear look at the Cuckoo’s face, not barge in and engage like a bunch of zealous morons. With that in mind, Neal recons they will have more success by putting themselves in the open and going out on a limb than by digging through half a year’s, possibly more, material with the off chance of finding a common thread. If nothing turns up, they can still go that route. Until then, Neal doesn’t want to waste any more time than necessary by sitting around idly._

_He takes up the coffee in its cardboard tray, and leaves a dollar in return._

_“And what’s the catch? I’m not that stupid, you know.”_

_Even through the cup, the beverage is steaming so he lets it cool a bit more and supplies another line into the silent phone instead:_

_“And you couldn’t be bothered to mention that in the first place, could you?! Don’t tell me you’ve got the Blues or worse yet: I’m not up for a surprise party with the boys from the Bureau.”_

_There’s a derisive snort from Mozzie’s end, unexpected and loud enough to nearly make Neal spill his coffee. “The bed you make is the bed you lie in.”_

_Neal hisses as liquid leaks out and onto his hand. The brew really is scalding hot, just as it mockingly states on the cup. He stops to rebalance the drink, and almost ends up run in by the customer behind him. It’s only thanks to his quick reflexes he manages to dodge the lady and keep the rest of the brew intact – the rest, that’s still in the cup and not running down his digits, searing his skin in the process. Neal grabs a napkin and dries his hand._

_“O my god, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”, the woman who walked into him inquires apologetically._

_Neal waves her off with a grimace: “I’ll live.” At least he didn’t ruin his suit, silver lining and whatnot._

_“Anything I can do to help?” She seems genuinely concerned, nervously adjusting her glasses._

_“It was an accident.” Neal wisps a smile onto his face to reassure her. “Don’t worry about it.”_

_She blushes. “Alright, if you say so – See you around, I guess and sorry, again.”_

_The lady bounds off, and Neal returns his attention to the phone._

_“Yeah, laugh it up,” he replies tersely._

_Moz catches up on the pause and his tone. “Trouble?”_

_“Give me a warning next time. I spilled my coffee.”_

_“Serves you right for going off script,” the little guy degrees._

_Neal huffs. “Thanks for asking: By the way, I’m fine."_

_There’s no further reply, which means Moz has returned to sulking silence and Neal decides to wrap things up at this place – and not order coffee at the next._

_He gives his last line of dialogue, before he hangs up:_

_“You know what, screw that: You need my help - I’m in, Moz. Just don’t forget about my share and I’ll be there, one a.m. sharp.”_

* * *

 

 

The first hint cluing him in something had been wrong, was when he had stopped by the tennis club a few minutes before eleven – and found the door ajar, handle bent out of shape and the alarm system disabled already. Bending solid steel was Meta 101 and could only mean the Cuckoo had taken their bait – only Neal was no longer the fisher in that metaphor but the chum.

 

* * *

 

 

_Neal takes a step back from the door and fumbles for his phone. He logs into the Delphi server and has the application search for Moz._

_He has made it his practice to slip the balding man a tracker every now and then and it has become a game of sorts to them, to outsneak each other and keep their skills sharp. While his friend quickly detects and disposes of most of them, some he never found; like the one sown into the hem of his jacket. The app pics up on a signal and points right ahead, into the tennis club and Neal curses._

_He had promised to keep his friend save and instead put him on a golden platter for the Cuckoo to find! He can only hope Moz is unharmed or at least still alive._

_This was supposed to lure the Cuckoo out – at least on this count a success – and get a good look at his face, identify their shadowy opponent so they could attribute the murders to him or at least make enough dirt stick to have him locked away. Neal is doubly glad now he brought his escrima sticks as well as the civilian, slimmed down-version of his utility belt with him, and opted to wear a set of high density polymer mesh garments underneath his beloved burglar-style dark turtleneck like the boy scout he was drilled to be. He makes sure his weapons of choice sit loosely in their holsters strapped to his thighs. The rest of the bat gadgets however he keeps hidden. No sense in tipping his opponent off about what he is actually capable of until he absolutely needs to. And, more importantly, who he is underneath the name of Neal Caffrey._

_He draws one of his sticks, before slipping through the cracked open door and entering the lion’s den._

_Inside, only darkness greets him and a weird tingling sensation at his back. As if he didn’t already know it, his instincts are screaming at him this is a trap._

_Well, they can suck it up, because Neal doesn’t care he is walking into one as long as he manages to find Moz and get him out safely._

_Even if he no longer needs the codes for the security system, having visited the locale in the bright light of day is now paying off. Thanks to this, he already knows the hallways and their dark corners, the parts most likely to hide an opponent or grant an opportunity for himself. Neal follows his phone’s directions, ducking into door frames on his way and making sure those doors are as locked as they are supposed to, lest he walks into an ambush._

_The building is eerily quiet and Neal ready to jump at any shadow – which, of course, is ridiculous. He did these sorts of things since he was eight, he doesn’t get nervous anymore. And he fought bigger, worse enemies than a lowly murderer with measly super-strength. Still, something feels wrong; like it’s right in front of his eyes yet he still can’t see it. Neal knows to trust his instincts: As soon as he gets to his friend, they’re high-tailing out of the club and he’ll pick up the trace later, on his own and wearing a different outfit._

_Neal checks his phone display again; even shielded by his hands the light a blinding beacon in the dark. Moz should be inside the second room to the left, a utility storage if memory serves right._

_He hastily closes the display and then freezes, breathing shallowly and making sure he is still alone in the dim hallway. He waits a full minute before moving again, zeroing in on the door he hopes to find his friend behind._

_Neal finds it locked, when he tries the handle so he uses the master key he liberated from Thompson and opens it._

_The door swings open, revealing rows of cupboards full of boxes and bottles and what looks like a figure leaning against the far wall._

_Neal steps into the room, easing the door shut behind him – and is greeted by a forcefully swung tennis racquet from the side. If not for well-trained reflexes and a block with his trusted escrima, he’d have taken a nasty hit to the head, a severe concussion at best._

_The force of the blow vibrates through his arm, and Neal groans._

_“Moz?”_

_The racquet clatters noisily to the floor._

_“Neal? What are you – I thought you were somebody else.”_

_“It’s fine, I’ll live. I know the Cuckoo is here.”_

_Neal pulls a flashlight out of his belt and turns it on. On its lowest setting, it lights up the room in a focused cone of soft light and does its job as efficiently as any bat-tool._

_The shelves around him are filled with cleaning utensils and what he first thought to be a human figure is actually a broom with a paint brush horizontally attached to it, wearing Mozzie’s jacket, two stacks of cans mimicking a pair of legs. A simple but effective ploy even Neal fell for in the poor lighting._

_He motions to pick up the racquet for Mozzie to rearm himself with his impromptu weapon._

_“Are you alright? We need to get –“_

_The flashlight touches his friend and Neal stops midsentence, blinks and forgoes the ‘out of here’ in favor of a: “Moz, what in blazes is_ that _?”_

_Instead of his usually figurative tinfoil hat, Moz is wearing a literal one, lined with electric wires._

_“Is what?” His friend turns, looking around for whatever threw Neal off, spotting nothing of note._

_With a sigh, Neal motions almost touching his hair and Moz mimics the gesture instinctively, touching the silvery contraption on his own head as he does._

_Realization flicks across Mozzie’s face – mixed with dread, that makes Neal’s own stomach churn in response. He already knows he won’t like whatever his friend is going to say next._

_Moz confirms his worries with a single word: “Telepath.”_

_“Are you absolutely certain?”_

_Moz doesn’t dignify that with one of his usual, snarky retorts. Instead, he recollects what happened in Neal’s absence, polishing his glasses as he talks: “Trust me, I wish I weren’t. I got here early, and started setting up our equipment. I just got comfortable in the main office and scrubbed myself from the surveillance cameras, when the one in the hall picks up movement. I check the video, and it’s the Cuckoo - not looking at the camera, but right at me and says: “There you are, little con. Until your friend gets here, it’s just you and me. Guess I’ll have to thank him for the invitation later.” I almost had a heart attack. And that feeling was back, like eyes staring directly into my head, so I grabbed what I could, built a basic shielding device and hid it out in here.”_

_Neal runs a hand across his face, almost smacking his forehead. Of course they are up against a telepath. With that, the fan is officially hit._

_Neal had already been positive their meta had enhanced strength; the telepathic component of the Cuckoo's powers however ironically never crossed his mind. Neal curses himself for his shortsightedness. The signs, after all, had been there. He had held the clues, just never made the connection to see the full picture. Now, the puzzle pieces slit into place:_

_The Cuckoo’s knack to shoot down jobs and hijack plans no one else but his victims knew about._

_Mozzie's inability to describe his stalker's features and the way he had spaced out when he tried to recall them, despite his flawless memory._

_Malcom's flared pupils and lack of resistance, as he had been choked to death in the surveillance video._

_With the ability to read and manipulate minds, it is no surprise the Cuckoo had not fallen for their trap; the rumor about Kingston and his supposed bullions – and instead, had turned the tables on them._

_And he hadn’t come after them yet, because…_

_Neal’s eyes flit to the tinfoil construct on Mozzie’s head and dread churns in his stomach. - Because he couldn’t locate Mozzie. Mozzie, with his beautiful, unique brand of genius and quick thinking. Not until Neal had obliviously waltzed right in and busted into his friend’s hideout, with his mind wide open._

_“You don’t happen to have another one of those hats, do you?”_

_Mozzie’s expression is hard, eerily calm. He shakes his head._

_“Any indication on a radius, limits to his powers? What strong a telepath are we dealing with?”_

_Moz repeats the motion and Neal heaves a deep, defeated sigh. They are on their own, completely out of their depth and royally screwed. And it is his fault. His mistake will get Moz killed._

_He swallows the sharp bile creeping up his throat and takes a calming breath._

_They are not dead yet, and Neal has never once thrown the towel before, he will not start now. He can do it, he can find a way. Until now, he always has._

_Neal rubs his jaw and thinks over his next steps – or rather, what he has to do before starting to think over them._

_As someone without powers, his mind is his strongest weapon - which utterly sucks when going up against a mind reader. As such a glaring weakness, B in his ingeniousness had of course found ways to level the field. Among them, most rely on gadgetry; the more advanced utilizing alien elements or magic, the more basic blocking out mental radiation and creating a surrounding electric field for additional interference - not dissimilar to the one Mozzie built._

_The alternative to these devices utilizes an ancient meditation. B leant that one during his travels, in a secluded monastery hidden away in the snowy crags of the Himalayas._

_It has been a while since he last needed that skill and Neal knows his technique is flawed, his control not as unshakeable as B’s. Against the onslaught of a skilled and strong enough telepath, his barrier will be as permanent and efficient as a band aid on a gaping wound._

_Neal forces that knowledge aside and closes his eyes, slows his breathing despite the urgency of the situation. He shuts out any distraction, focusing on how he interacts with the world, where he ends and everything else begins. He visualizes a bubble encompassing his thoughts, the way his skin covers his body. Then he strengthens this bubble with mental clutter, burrows himself in it: Facts irrelevant to the current situation, knowledge about world history and culture, columns of numbers and dates, mindless conversations he had with strangers, just to fill the silence. Further inside, he keeps the art and snapshots of memories that stuck with him, motives that fill him with reverie, patches of color that bring melancholy and joy, lines that remind him of people dear to him. Better hidden still and at the very center, he keeps those very people and the memories he had with them: Friends of Neal, friends of Dick and all of them family of a kind. Among them he settles himself, with the smallest room for his current thoughts._

_From this save haven, he carefully carves a miniscule passage back to the outside, a one-way-mirror that serves as a window for him to interact through._

_Neal opens his eyes again, and it’s like watching the world from underwater or through frosted glass._

_Paradoxically, it helps him see things clearer, maybe a bit more like Bruce sees the world all the time._

_Neal has a mission with clear objectives: He needs to get Moz out of here safely, retrieve their equipment and learn what has been gleamed from his mind, if his family’s secrets are still safe._

_The second parameter is optional: Moz is wearing gloves and grabbed what he could when he went into hiding. Neal can return later, and if not, the surveillance gear is an acceptable, only financial loss and can’t be traced back to them._

_Keeping Moz save is of the highest priority. Even obstructed, Neal’s mind next to his is a liability, for it can still be detected – Not that it matters much, as the Cuckoo is by now either en route to their hiding spot or already waiting for them to step outside. Neal will have to take the lead, attack first and divert attention from Moz, so the man can make his escape and Neal fight at his full potential, without having to worry for his friend. For that, he has his escrima and a small assortment of bat-tools at his disposal: A pair of handcuffs specially designed to keep foes with enhanced strength in check, the flashlight he currently holds, smoke pellets, a respirator, an earbud patching him into the communications system and a grapnel gun. He also carries a spare mask and a few Wing-Dings, but he will only utilize the benefits these grant as a last resort – or if the Cuckoo already knows about his alter ego._

_To determine if that’s the case will be tricky. Neal will have to try and wriggle that fact from the Cuckoo during their inevitable confrontation. And once he is in custody, either J’onn or M’gann can pay him a visit to make sure._

_“No point in delaying the inevitable”, Neal degrees and subtly slips the earbud in place. He leaves it on stand-by for now. “We have to get out of here. Stay together – and if we make contact with the Cuckoo, split up. You’re safer without a detectable mind next to you. I’ll find you, once we’re in the clear.”_

_“We’re not splitting up,” Moz huffs. “That’s Horror Movie 101. There has to be another way.”_

_Of course Moz has objections – Neal expects nothing less from his friend. It warms his heart, even if it throws a wrench in his plans._

_“Unless you have a better idea,” he prompts._

_Moz sputters in indignation: “I’m not leaving you! You’re my partner!”_

_Neal appreciates the sentiment, he really does. He almost laughs at the thought all it took to reunite the two of them was a life-threatening crisis._

_“That’s right, we’re partners – and I’m the front man. Being the diversion is what I do, right? It’s my job to cover you.”_

_“And it’s my job to make sure you don’t get yourself killed while doing so,” Moz scowls._

_His friend has a point, Neal concedes. He has been known for reckless abandon when another’s safety is concerned, if only because he knows he can handle what others can’t._

_He levels his best trust-me eyes at Moz. “I won’t, I know what I’m doing.”_

_His friend only snorts at that._

_“You know me: I’ll probably jump off something high, pull of a few hare-brained stunts and we’ll laugh about it in the morning. I’ll be fine.”_

_It’s not an empty promise. Neal is used to thinking on his feet, and at his best when things spiral out of control. His instincts and the routines drilled into him by Bruce make sure he sticks every landing, one way or another._

_“Say I agree to this madness,” Moz reluctantly decides, “how do we meet up after?”_

_“I’ll find you again, like I did just now.”_

_Moz narrows his eyes. “Where is it?”_

_“Is what?”_

_“Your tracer.”_

_Despite the gravity of their situation, Neal can’t help but grin in glee. So Moz really hadn’t found it._

_“It’s in the hem of your jacket. Do me a favor and leave it there until we get the Cuckoo –In return, I’ll keep the one in my shoe a while longer, too.”_

_“You knew?” Eyebrows shoot up to meet what would traditionally be a hairline._

_Neal shrugs dramatically. “I thought it only fair.” Neal has other pair of shoes to fall back on for activities he doesn’t want Moz to know about and simply just hadn’t bothered to remove the device from where it is wedged into the sole’s tread._

_His friend moves to dismantle the structure Neal had mistaken for a human figure on entry, removing his jacket from the broom, patting down the arm in search of the gadget._

_“Underneath the button,” Neal supplies helpfully, beaming with pride. Moz finally finds the device, begrudgingly impressed with his protégé’s finesse. As requested, he leaves it in place and pulls his jacket on._

_There is no use in delaying the inevitable any longer; playtime is over._

_“No time like the present,” Neal quips. On his signal, Moz opens the door, staying in its shadow and Neal steps out, flashlight in one, escrima in the other hand._

_Fully prepared to face the onslaught of a meta’s strength, he keeps light on his toes, ready to react at a moment’s notice – and only looks onto an empty corridor. That doesn’t make any sense – why aren’t they being attacked? Did the Cuckoo, with all his powers, just walk up and away? Had to use the restroom that very moment? Unlikely – and yet…_

_“Clear – I think,” Neal whispers and beckons Moz to step beside him. “Stay on your guard.”_

_“Wasn’t planning on anything else.”_

_Together, they make their way towards the exit, carefully navigating the darkness. They are still awaiting an ambush with every heart bead, taking cover where they can, always on the look-out for the Cuckoo._

* * *

 

 

This is precisely how the two of them end up cowered against the lockers, with Neal’s paranoia running havoc – even if it technically isn’t paranoia; there is someone out for them.

Neal suppresses a dramatic sighs as he comes to the conclusion the universe has it out for him. That’s why nothing ever is as easy as he thought it would be, period. Not that he isn’t used to that by now. Honestly, he doesn’t even mind anymore most of the time. As Peter once noted, Neal tends to be at his best when things go south, and proudly so.

Well, generally at least. Definitely not today. Today he is rather out of his depths and worried he’ll fail his friend, not sure what other abilities the Cuckoo will pull out of his hat. He never before appreciated how most powered individuals have the decency to be normal, egomaniac nutjobs and do the world a favor by walking around in fancy, bright costumes as a warning. If everyone had the sanity to keep a low profile and their powers a secret… - Neal shudders at the thought.

Well, maybe not at that thought alone: Neal strains his senses into the darkness. He can feel they are no longer alone in the hall, even if his eyes don’t pick up on that info. A faint shuffle, a chill running down his neck, a prickling on is skin.

“Run!”, Neal orders and directs Moz towards the exit. The little man only stumbles instead of falling into the breakneck speed he usually possesses when running away. Something is wrong, and it's affecting Neal too, if not as much as his friend: Neal hadn’t noticed it at first, but his own movements are sluggish, lethargy sneaking up on him, his thoughts drifting to events in the past - side effects he afore attributed to the shield erected in his mind. Moz however can’t possibly be affected by them, which leaves only once conclusion: It’s the Cuckoo’s ability to manipulate minds at work, forcing them into false complacency. Just like he did with Malcoms; stopping his victim from fighting back.

Neal can’t help but wonder how long they have already been influenced by whatever the meta is doing without being the wiser.

At least it gets easier to focus once he realizes what is happening - just in time:

The air around him moves and Neal shoves a nonresponsive Moz out of the way, dodges on instinct alone, barely avoiding an attack aimed to crush his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story hit 1000 views and over 50 kudos last week, which may not be much in the grand scale of the Archive or even the whole web, but it means a lot to me: Having 51 people like my work - that's enourmous, and I'd like to thank you for your support!  
> Should you have any criticque - maybe you don't like that one word I've used or this chapter's experimental, nonlinear style or maybe things just don't work like that in real life and/or I broke your suspension of disbelief in any way - let me know. Because, honestly, I don't know the slightest bit about alarm systems, how morgues ar organized, what a real tennis club looks like from the inside or how mystic mind techniques could possibly work. I have never even once ordered a coffee ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added the tag "Canon Typical Violence" for a reason: There's a confrontation to be had and people will be hurt. There won't be any cut off faces or anything like that, but you can't make an omelette without a few broken bones... Or eggs? Same difference.
> 
> Also to anyone getting their hopes up this might finally be the last chapter: Sorry to disappoint! What was basically to be two short scenes developed into so much more. Heck, the second part was originally intended to be, like a simple phone call...
> 
> Thank you for your support and hope you enjoy :)

Neal whirls around in a kick and connects with something that shouldn’t be there. That is, at least, if his eyes are to be trusted – which apparently, they are not. Just great: Add invisibility to the Cuckoo’s abilities, for another step up the oh-crap-scale. Yep, the universe hates him. Neal will have to ponder on that at a later time though, not in the middle of a fight. He doesn’t need visual input to kick ass anyway, so he concentrates on his other senses.

He jumps towards his enemy, directed by instinct. Neal succeeds in landing two quick hits with his escrima, managing to break skin and draw blood, the Cuckoo too put off his mojo doesn’t work to react. His opponent is clearly not used to prey who fights back, able to resists the voice in their head that whispers everything is all right. 

Neal’s third attack however is caught mid-swing, a lithe hand trapping his own in one hell of an iron grip.

He tries to get free; in one single motion, he clips the light to his belt and grasps the second escrima from its holster with his unrestricted hand. He brings it upward to wreak havoc, aims where he suspects the Cuckoo’s face – but never connects. Instead, his arm is driven hard against the locker behind him, lifting him onto his toes, locks and protrusions bruising his back.

"Sorry for that."

The disembodied, surprisingly female voice doesn't sound sorry at all and is all the warning he gets, before his bones grind together and shatter underneath the Cuckoo's touch with a sickening crush.

Neal cries out in anguish, the weapon sliding from his grasp and rattling to the ground. He huffs for breath, to rein his body’s response in and access the damage: A complicated fracture that will take weeks to heal - if he lives that long.

The only good coming out of this disaster is that his yelp startled Moz, who blinks like he is awakening from deep slumber.

"Wha - Neal?" He sees his partner in pain, and motions to run towards him.

Neal lends his voice all the authority of the Bat: "You need to get out. Now." No way is he going to let his friend risk his life, again. Neal doesn’t mind playing the bait and keeping the Cuckoo busy, if only Moz just manages to finally get a move on and bolt.

“I’ll catch up later,” he promises and fortifies his words by fighting back:

Pulling up his knee and kicking out high, he aims for the Cuckoo’s sternum and chest. His foot connects, successfully driving the air from his opponent’s lungs.

Neal doesn’t waste any time by looking over his shoulder but is relieved to hear diminishing footsteps echo through the hallway as his friend follows his order.

He wriggles out of the slackening grip, hissing as he pries his injured right free. Without the hold on his arm, he slips to the ground. Neal steadies himself with his good hand and sweeps his leg in a circular movement, bringing his opponent to fall.

There’s thud and unfriendly snarl that confirm his success. Neal sets to jump at his opponent, pin her to the ground – and hesitates, not sure where which part of the Cuckoo’s anatomy is.

He gets to regret is immediately, when a leg kicks out for him in return. Neal feels the draft in time and jumps, cartwheels to bring some distance between him and the meta, moving into wider space to not be backed against the lockers again.

Blindly dealing with someone with super strength isn’t all the way down there as far as brilliant ideas go, but nearly so. Neal decides to level the playing field: He activates the smoke pellets and slips the respirator onto his face.

The Cuckoo gets a good lung full and coughs and curses. As she tries to pierce the smoke and shuffles about, the sound gives away her position.

Neal grins and moves back in. “Peekaboo!”, he mocks, as his escrima connects with what is definitely a jaw.

The resulting smack is satisfying even if it doesn’t dislocate, curtesy of super durable muscles.

“Who are you?”, the Cuckoo demands to know.

Neal dodges an angry, predictable fist aimed his way and retaliates with a punch of his own.

“Just your friendly neighborhood acro _bat_.” Neal stresses the Bat part, but there is no audible indication of recognition from his opponent. Well, it was worth a try.

With a step backwards, he avoids a hit that otherwise would have flung him across the room. Maybe he is slowly getting used to this unusual fight, maybe the wisps of dissipating smoke help pinpoint the Cuckoo or maybe he has developed an additional sense of sorts, telling him just what he isn’t seeing – whatever it is, it allows Neal to easily sidestep the next swing. He catches the fist - thumbs inside like a complete amateur - with his good hand, and rams his other elbow into the Cuckoo’s stomach.

His opponent doubles over in reflex and Neal brings his baton down on her back for good measure. She goes down and Neal pulls the arm he still holds into a joint lock, replaces the escrima with his knee.

Right about now he could really use a hand – literally. His wrist is a goner, painfully refusing to obey his commands. Neal makes due with his elbow, even if he has to loosen the hold and hurriedly captures the hand he holds in a cuff. 

He reaches for the other, when the Cuckoo suddenly fights back. Maybe she noticed his grip loosening; maybe she just decided to brute it out. Whatever reason – Neal is flung across the hallway before he notices what is going on, his head and back crashing violently against the wall.

When he opens his eyes and comes to himself again, Neal is on his back, an arm square across his chest, keeping him down and effectively from breathing, his respirator gone. Stars are dancing behind his eyes and if the pain is any indication, one of his ribs gave out somewhere between the wall and the Cuckoo’s arm. Neal makes an effort to keep as still as he can: The rib and his wrist are bad enough; he doesn’t need a punctured lung and all the complications that entails on top.

“Easy,” Neal wheezes out. He forces a smile on his face, which is so much harder when everything _hurts_. “I learnt my lesson - Not gonna try anything.” For now at least. Maybe later, when his head stops throbbing and the urge to barf subsides: Another item on the list of things his rib wouldn’t take kindly to.

To his surprise, the pressure on his chest actually lessens, if only minutely.

“Then tell me: Why can I no longer see your thoughts?”

“Maybe because I value my privacy, thank you very much.”

The arm is back, stronger than before. Neal gasps and closes his eyes to fight down the nausea bubbling up in him stronger than before. Okay, maybe he didn’t think that one through…

“Wrong answer.”

“Yeah, I-“ Neal immediately regrets speaking – or breathing for that matter. He winces, as his rib protests under the strain.

The lady above him clicks her tongue and gives him a bit more room to breathe. Neal uses the space to take a few shaky breaths and think over his next move.

“Thanks, sorry. I don’t like advertising it. It’s just something I can do, like you can do – whatever it is you do. Natural stress reaction, I can’t control it,“ he boldly lies without batting an eye.

The answer at least gets him a surprised pause. “I looked you up, and nothing indicated you had powers.”

The more she talks, the more certain Neal becomes he has heard that voice before, just today during his preparations. If only he can keep her talking, give her identity away or something else to work with later. He decides to play things dumb and see what will transpire.

“You did? How…?”

There’s a huff. Neal can hear the rolled eyes and the disdainful expression without needing to see them: “I’m a mind reader, Caffrey.”

 _Caffrey_ : Caffrey is good, is excellent, and not Grayson or Wayne or, worse yet, Nightwing. Neal keeps the relief from his face and channels it into a breathy, embarrassed laugh.

“Right, sorry, I forgot – You did throw me against that wall pretty hard.”

“And I will throw you again if I don’t like your answers.”

The thought alone is – unpleasant. But Neal keeps that easy smile on his lips.

“Maybe you shouldn’t. If you have questions, you’ll want me coherent enough to answer them.” Years of training and a trigger J’onn placed per Bruce’s request make sure his mind goes blank and cannot be breached while he is unconscious.

“You only need to answer one: Where did the little guy go?”

Neal has half a mind to tell her, watch her try and find her way through the underground _and_ the defenses Moz unmistakably has in place. He doesn’t: “Really only one? You don’t want to know where I keep the real bullions? What about Raphael’s George? Or where I put the fabled amber music box of Tsarina Catherine the Great?” Neal pouts and feigns offence. “ _Everyone_ wants to know that one.”

“You can start with the whereabouts of your partner – and then trade your fortune, treasures, trinkets and all for your life.”

“Yeah, right.” As if he was naïve enough to believe the Cuckoo would just let him walk after. Heck, as if he would even think to betray Moz. “I’ll have to pass on that, I’m afraid.”

The force on his chest grows and something snaps, another rip giving out. Neal tries to breathe through the pain - which is funny, because it doesn’t do jack when breathing is the thing that hurts most. He feels himself drifting off, starting to get lightheaded.

“You didn’t even say _Please_ ,” he wheezes.

“I don’t have to. Tell me.”

Neal’s only response is a maddening grin.

The Cuckoo leans closer; he can feel her breath ghosting across his sweat cold skin. Deceptively gentle, she whispers in his ear: “Tell. Me.”

Neal catches himself opening his mouth, relaxing, almost giving in to her powers. She is slowly chiseling away at the barrier keeping his mind safe and he feels his control starting to slip. Pheromones, maybe?

“How”, Neal gasps involuntarily underneath the mental strain, fighting the fog forming around the edges of his mind, “are you doing that?”

“Don’t worry about me. It’s alright – You can tell me _everything_ , Neal.”

The compulsion to answer grows. Neal forces himself to concentrate on the sting in his hand and in his chest, the rhythmic contractions of his bruised rips. In and out he breathes, falling into a familiar pattern.  This is his body, his mind. He is in control, no one else. The mantra helps and thinking gets easier again.

“Really wish I could. Darn, imagine us as partners, the jobs we could have pulled. Me as a con, and forger, you with your,” Neal huffs for breath, “whole arsenal of abilities: Telepathy, invisibility and this mind control thing you have going; making me want to answer and just relax.”

“You _can_ relax.”

The laugh hurts, badly. “Sure, and end up dead the moment I do – I know your record: LeGrange, Hugh, Fiero, Damari, Miller, Cordes, Santiago – and Malcoms most recently. That’s how you did it, stopped them from struggling.”

“Yes, now stop worrying your pretty, smart head.”

“And that’s just the ones I could find – and boy did I have to dig for them. It’s beautiful, it is: You might have more jobs under your belt than me – and no one even knows you exist.” Neal pauses, thinks how to spin it from there: “It’s a shame, but also smart, I guess. Spares you attention from the police, the FBI – and in your case, the Justice League, probably. But that kind of life isn’t for me: I like the fun, the thrill, the attention, to showcase my work – must be hard for you, no one to know who you really are, what you really are capable of.”

The Cuckoo above him broods in silence and Neal can feel the thought worming into her head.

“I mean, I can sympathize with the sentiment as far as law enforcement is concerned – that’s more of an acquired taste – but I wouldn’t ever want to miss out on the reputation my name has in our circles, among fellow thieves and crooks.”

“ _Don’t_ lump me in with that lot.”

Her sudden anger is tearing at Neal’s mind, powering her telepathic assault. Neal grits his teeth but can’t resist giving the hornets’ nest one more poke: “That’s awfully hypocritical. Murder? Check. Theft and Robbery? Check. Sounds like you really are part of us _lot_ , dear. Hey, I’m not judging, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Shut up!” The deep rooted anger paired with denial means he is on to something, something fundamental that might give him deeper insight into the Cuckoo’s agenda. His defenses still hold and Neal has no mind for backing down.

“Oh, right: _Quod licet Iovi, non licet bovi_ _._ I can totally see the difference,” he goads.

Which earns him a downright menacing hiss.

“You -!” The word washes with so much force over Neal, he blinks up in confusion trying to find out why he can’t move and everything hurts, before things snap back into place.

“You think you get to mock me? I am nothing like you or the names you are so proud to have dug up like that gives you any right to accuse me! I do not care for bank robbers and jewelry thieves and your ilk – nothing but grime and dirt and corruption I cleaned up. I did the world a favor – and I’m going to do it another one: You and your weasely friend are next!,” she seethes.

That’s an astonishing level denial and – score one for the ever recording Bat gear -  as close to a confession as Neal is ever going to get: It almost sounds like the Cuckoo thinks of herself as a hero; a murderer with a mission. The delusional ones always are the most dangerous ones: Neal has all he will get. He needs to get out, preferably with the rest of his hide still intact.

He doesn’t get the chance to formulate a plan, though.

“Now, give up your friend: Show me!”

Neal’s head is stinging with pain and accompanying her voice, there’s a sound in his ears like nails on chalkboard. The Cuckoo is slipping through the cracks in his mental defenses, has her hooks in him and pulling him open, reaching for his deepest secrets. Neal is desperately trying to dam in the damage, keep up his barricades, but it is too late for that, his mind too much in disarray to slip back into the meditative state required. He can feel her worm her way in, and Neal tries his best to keep her at bay by obstructing his thoughts: He starts reciting the identifiers authenticating bank notes, and uses the shattered respite of the memories surrounding him to pull up a very specific one.

He doesn’t even have time for a snarky retort, before the last sliver of control escapes him and the Cuckoo dives right into the memory held ready, pulling Neal with her:

_For a moment, Neal is blind, blinking into the familiar glare of bright lights, before his vision adjusts. He can feel the dull wood of the platform underneath the thin soles of his costume, the indentation years of training, tradition, flying left despite strict maintenance. He smells the stench in the air, sweat and animals, sawdust and cotton candy combined to something that fills him with the familiar sting of home._

_He watches with a smile, as his parents fly, his aunt, uncle and cousin following them. The music plays up, barely a roar up here – and then gets drowned out by a groan shaking the entire tent, as the rigging gives and something snaps, freezing time for everyone but his family._

_His father looks up in shock, finds his gaze, as the trapeze starts rushing to the ground and all Dick can do is scream, reach out futilely even if he can’t hope to catch the cable, fight gravity with his puny frame and too short arms. He screams – or the whole tent screams with him. The memory is blurred, cuts out; barely follows his hasty steps down the ladder or how he reaches the center of the ring with buckling legs. What isn’t blurred is the sight before his eyes, forever edged into his mind: Scattered, broken limps; open, lifeless, empty eyes; hands still warm and damp but without the strength and love they always held. Horror and unnamable feelings too great to grasp with a human mind, lest a child’s one, shakes his body, forces the air from his lungs and life from his limbs and Dick finally falls, next to his parents like the ground took him too, only it isn’t so merciful: Despite the empty cold tearing his soul apart, he lives, the tears falling from his eyes and the ragged, heaving breaths shaking him the only proof of that._

_He lives, and watches again and again those around him die, helpless to stop his old and new family from falling: Remembers the lifeless body Bruce had brought home in his brother’s stead, watches Artemis fall and feels the guilt  and mistrust his plot against the Light had earned him, sees Wally fade into the speed force again…_

Only - that’s not true. The memories hurt, but they also help ground him in the present, in a world where Jason is alive, Artemis’s death only a ploy and his speedster friend came running back.

Dick – Neal opens his tear-blind eyes and blinks until he can see clearly again.

 On top of him he finds a heavy body; her head lolled onto his shoulder and she is staring at him, through him with eerily white, rolled back eyes.

“How do you like my head now, huh?”, Neal bites spitefully, his voice trembling and raw.  Maybe it’s a good thing the Cuckoo probably can’t hear him right now. He wiggles out from underneath her unconscious form and pants, just lies on his back a bit longer, pain, exertion and the freshly stirred drama taking their toll.

Revisiting that moment still hits home, after all these years, especially with the added intensity the eyes of a telepath provided.

Neal wipes the salt from his face with his good hand and sits up: At least it hit the Cuckoo worse still.

She still isn’t moving, barely even breathing and – Neal belatedly checks – her pulse frantic. It would appear the raw terror, hurt and despair of nine year old Dick Grayson, seasoned with every loss that followed that very first, had been more than she could stomach.

With her psychoactive powers now out of commission and her influence stripped from his mind, Neal finally gets a real look at the living urban legend:

She is surprisingly petite for someone with her strength. A woman of mediocre height, boyishly short hair, with a pair of dislodged glasses on her nose. She is even wearing a trench coat: Exactly as Moz described, once he fought through the haze blocking his mind. Take that, lady! Photographic memory: One – Cuckoo powers: Zero. While she is not wearing the scarf this time around, a turtleneck with high-enough a collar obstructs her face. Neal reaches out and peels the fabric down.

Just like the voice, the revealed face, too, is strikingly familiar. Neal ponders where he might have met here, and it comes to him: She was at the coffee shop, the woman who almost ran into him – and then took her leave with a skittish, in retrospect rather ominous _See you around_.

Her eyes flutter close and her breathing speeds up. She is already waking up, much faster than Neal would have hoped. Hastily, he scrambles to re-erect the barrier around his mind. In comparison to his first shield this one is a sloppy field dressing; quick work, but it serves to hide his thoughts and will hold under the first assault. He expects – hopes – she won’t make the same mistake again, come at him so directly a second time.

In the time it took to concentrate on his thoughts, the Cuckoo is already recovering; she is coughing, heaving up dry heaves of bile and crawling away from Neal – which makes him realize his slip-up: He should have finished cuffing her up first thing once he opened his eyes, but he had been too distracted by the aftershock of relieving his memories and the need to breathe. He curses his own tardiness. Now it is too late, the Cuckoo has dragged herself far enough away Neal can no longer reach her hands, not without a fight he would inevitably lose.

He ponders his options and acts quickly, before she gets away even further.

Neal digs his fingernails into the sole of his shoe and wedges out Mozzie’s tracker. Without knowing better, it looks like a pebble or some sort of stony debris, with one tapered edge.

He ignores the protesting sting of his ribs and reaches out. He gets a hold of her coat and pulls; somewhere, fabric is giving under the strain. With practiced ease, Neal slips his hand into her pocket, finds a loosened seam and presses the tracker into the coat’s lining as a contingency. Just in time, before the Cuckoo kicks out.

“Who do you think you are?,” she snaps in anger and spits the last amount of bile to the ground. The aimed leg is sluggish but powerful and Neal lets go in favor of evading another hit to his already battered chest, rolling out of the way.

“You tell me. Between the two of us, _you’re_ the mind reader.”

She actually has the gall to laugh at that and her form starts flickering back into invisibility as if mocking him. Neal had hoped her powers would be short-circuited for a while, which must show on his face.

“Disappointed your little trick didn’t work better? Well, you aren’t the only one with a lousy childhood around here, so get in line.”

Neal winces at the cruel remark, but it’s not as if his sensibilities will mean anything as soon as she regains complete control of her powers – By that time he’d prefer to be out of reach, so he opts for a strategic retreat. Neal takes a deep breath and pushes to his feet. He walks over to where his batons have skittered and bows down to pick them up, careful to not smear the blood at the tip – he can find a use for it later. The movement predictably sets his world spinning and Neal steadies himself against the lockers until the ground stops wobbling; the very ground where the Cuckoo had still crouched a few moments before, which is now suspiciously empty.

Neal doesn’t stay around to find out where she is right now, but sets into a running pace, pulling shallow, even breaths through clenched teeth into his abused lungs. He takes off through the doors, jumps onto his bike, somehow manages to put his helmet on onehanded and activates the autopilot mode. With the state of his wrist, driving unaided is just as likely to get Neal killed as staying to fight the murder lady. He swerves off, first to get outside the telepathic radius and then towards the docks, where he owns a storage unit.

 

Only five minutes later, he lifts his hand to a scanner and then rolls his bike into the garage. The door locks behind Neal and he slumps down on the small cot in the room with a groan. He is tired and being awake _hurts_ , enough so that the thin mattress of the field bed starts feeling downright comfy. Neal takes a moment to just breathe, then pulls himself together and reaches for the freezer. He takes out two icepacks, one for his chest, the second to wrap around his swollen wrist. The cold helps shake the weariness and numb the pain.

Neal pulls out his phone to check on Moz and bring him up to speed. He goes straight to voice mail:

“They are always listening,” Mozzie’s recorded voice drones as a warning, followed by a beep.

Neal leaves a message:  “Hey, Moz, it’s me. Just wanted to let you know I got out in one piece. The Cuckoo got away and you might want to give my tracker a wide berth. I slipped it into her coat, so we can find out where she’s living – and where we shouldn’t be while she’s in the vicinity. Don’t bother waiting up for me, I’m hunting down a few loose ends to tie up, maybe I can find out a bit more. So yeah – I’m alright, hope you are too? Call and-or text me as soon as you hear this.”

Neal hangs up and sighs. He is worried for his friend, but knowing Moz the man has by now dug himself in in one of his safe houses and is self-medicating with a glass of wine to get over his nerves.

Neal wouldn’t mind to do the same, but he still has his night’s work cut out for him: He doesn’t want a repeat performance of the disaster he just got away from and for that he’ll need some toys – and the best place to get them is back home.

Reluctantly, he gets up again, rearms the security and exits what looks to be a run-down warehouse from the outside. In the small alley next to it sits an equally derelict, out of service phone booth. Its glass panes are broken, and only held in place by the incredible properties of duct tape. Shards are scattered everywhere and the stench of human waste is … authentic. Neal holds his breath, steps inside and ignores the apparently torn out cables. The real tech is better hidden – and worth more than a bit of lousy copper: An entrance to the Zeta network.

Neal picks up the receiver that is only dangling on a thread and types in a code. Above him, a scanner activates and sweeps over his features; verifying he is who the code identifies him as and disabling the unpleasant defense mechanisms. Which an electronic whirr the teleportation device powers up and Neal enters the access code to the Batcave.

His skin starts to fizzle with the accustomed sensation of the Zeta radiation hitting, as if it is already in two places at once. The feeling of teleportation is none too pleasant, but comforting in its familiarity.

The computer’s voice drones in his ears: “Recognized: Night-“

Neal takes a step forward, knowing the transition will feel more natural that way. His foot comes down on cold, clammy stone and cool air with the unique aroma of just a hint of bat droppings and the chemicals used to counter that smell hit Dick’s lungs.

“-Wing – B01”, the system finishes announcing his arrival, calling out his old identification. He never took a new name and as nobody adopted his costume, it never was changed. The sudden synthetic noise startles the creatures hiding among the cave’s crags – and the one slouching in front of the computer.

“I’m awake,” the figure belonging to his little brother reassures quickly, obviously anything but and bumps against the empty cup resting next to his head. The porcelain clatters threatening, but doesn’t fall.

“Hey Timbo,” Dick calls out softly. “What are you still doing down here?” There’s school tomorrow – or rather, today.

“Dick!”

Now Tim is definitely awake, swiveling the big chair around and rushing towards him for a hug. Dick winces under the force of the impact, almost yelping in pain.

Despite the discomfort of his injuries, Dick relishes the touch from his brother; even before he relocated to New York, those were a rare thing. Tim however pulls back quickly, gives him a critical stare and of course notices Dick is off his game and injured, despite the smile. Did the boy have to be always so perceptive?

Tim narrows his eyes.  “You don’t looks so chipper.”

Chipper, yeah, right. Maybe because Dick doesn’t feel _chipper_. Bruce will have kittens when he learns how easily he got shoved around by a single opponent. Well, Dick is retired and Batman no longer the boss of him.

“You don’t, either,” Dick retorts and his response comes out more defensively and less playfully than he’d have liked. There are dark rings underneath his brother’s eyes that contrast all the more against his pale skin.

Tim flinches. “Sorry.”

That raises all sorts of red flags in Dick’s mind. Guilt overwhelms him, for how rarely he has stopped by these past two months to see his brother. He knows Tim struggles against his own demons but that shouldn’t mean he has to face them on his own. Dick should have been there. Well, he is now, but only for business, which is that much worse.

He masks his emotions behind a grin: “Like I am one to judge.” Dick affectionately pulls his brother close again, squeezing his shoulder.

“You holding up alright?”, he asks, despite the obvious opposite. Tim shrugs stoically and Dick ruffles his hair in response. “It’s good to see you. Let’s get ice cream together sometime this week.”

“In New York?” The weather is still on the nice side of chilly, and with the golden leaves Central Park is gorgeous. Neal knows just the place to go, only a short walk from his apartment.

“Yeah, if you want. And you can finally meet June.”

Tim actually smiles up at him. “You’ll introduce me to Miss Motive?” It’s easy to forget Tim never met his landlady and that he still harbors a deep admiration for the heroes that preceded him and the Justice League. If his brother stops by, it’s usually in the dead of night after patrol – not the best time for social visits.

“Sure – but don’t call her that.” June is proud of her past accomplishments, but the name she wore in costume still tainted by the memory of her late Byron.

Tim looks up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Of course not, I’m a professional.”

 “Could have fooled me.” Dick laughs – and regrets it immediately, writhing in pain.

Tim’s expression closes off, like someone pulled a switch and activated Robin-Mode: “You’re injured. What happened?”

“I was an idiot.” Dick tries to bring the smile back onto his brother’s face.

Tim snorts, almost on reflex to the familiar tease. “You often are,” he replies before he turns somber again: “Med-Bay.”

Dick shakes his head. “Give me a moment; I need to check on Moz first.”

Tim moves to prep the medical scanners and Dick slips into the chair his brother occupied until a few moments. He snatches the last of the cookies Tim must have brought down and opens the required application with a single keyboard command.

Mozzie’s tracer is currently offline, but the history of its last coordinates dissipates Dick’s worries: They gravitate around an area he has learned to associate with one of Mozzie’s safe houses, the one named for the most dreadful day of the week. Content with that information, Dick moves to the infirmary where his brother is already waiting for him.

 

Tim notices the last smear of chocolate in one corner of his mouth Dick is too slow to dap off and gives him the stink eye.

“That was mine, you dirty thief,” he grumbles.

“That was Alfie’s. Also: _Alleged_ , world-renowned thief,” Dick corrects cheerfully.

Tim who started checking him down prods harder than necessary, and Dick winces. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“You better be. You’re lucky someone else bet me to the punch in beating you up. They did a great job, by the way.”

Dick groans. “I noticed. I’ll pass the lady your regards when we have a rematch.”

“She got away? – Stop squirming.”

 Dick holds still as the machine scans his wrist. “More like: I got away.” He positions his hand for a second shot from another angle.

“That bad?”

“Real Jack-in-a-box of a meta: Super strength I could have handled but suddenly she’s flinging out mental abilities: Mind-reading and perception manipulation to a level that basically renders her invisible. At least, if that’s what it was.”

Tim whistles and pulls the x-rays onto a monitor for both of them to see: His radius is shattered in multiple places, the fragments out of place. His ulna and metacarpal bones at least are only bruised and with unimpaired sensation his nerves luckily undamaged.

“Well, she got you good. One rip broken, the one beneath it cracked and with that hand you’re not going to get your rematch any time soon.”

“It’s not like I have a choice: She’s after Moz and she knows who I am.”

Tim turns and glares at him, in that intense way only the Batman and a select few have mastered. Dick ducks his head and quickly amends: “Neal Caffrey. Nothing suggested she got anything else.” Worst case, she might try looking into trapeze accidents, but Dick covered all digital traces of his past and himself when he took the name of the elusive con-man.

Tim only hums in reply. “We’ll have to realign that radius. You want some codeine?”

“I can handle it – I’ll need a clear head later.” Tim silently hands him the mouth wedge and Dick crinkles his nose. He hates the darn thing, too many memories of injuries and feverish nights tied to it. Dick however also needs his tongue – he’d make a poor con without it – and so he bites the proverbial bullet instead.

“If only we still had that cookie,” Tim deadpans.

Dick’s reply comes out too muffled to understand. He takes the wedge out and repeats: “Ha-ha. Leave the jokes to me and let’s just get this over with.”

Thanks to the ice-pack the swelling of his wrist has receded to almost normal levels, but the skin is still tender and over sensitized even without Tim manipulating his joints. Dick groans into the rubber, trying his best to keep his muscles lax despite the ache. He nods, and Tim pulls and for a moment, Dick vision comprises only of white blots of pain. His brother lets go and Dick takes a few moments to breathe through it before closing his fist in trial, carefully rotating his wrist. It hurts like a lady dog, but a new image confirms the conservative reduction was successful. At least Dick won’t need surgery.

Tim updates his medical sheet and Dick waits for the cast to be printed: Opposed to a standard cast made of plaster, it is lighter, less obstructing while more durable and even skin colored – easier to conceal and an additional layer of protection around their identities. There are, after all, only so many times Bruce Wayne can turn up with an injury from skiing or rock-climbing or other random stupid rich people things at the very same time the Batman is out of commission after a fight with Bane or from catching an unfortunate bullet without arousing suspicions.

Tim helps him wrap his arm with thin gauze and strap the cast into place. There’s nothing Dick can do for his rips except not overly excerpt himself for the next six weeks – yeah, good one – and tape them for added stability when going out.

Tim gets up to refill his cup with coffee.

“Tell me what you know; I’ll type up your report.”

Dick stops him before his brother can drop into the chair in front of the big computer. He chances a look at the clock in the lower right corner of the display and winces.

“No, you won’t,” he degrees and gently wrestles the cup from Tim’s hand. “I appreciate the offer and am grateful for your help so far, but you really should go to bed, Timmers.”

“I can’t sleep.”

He knows that’s not the complete truth: Tim is exhausted enough he had been drifting off when Dick arrived.  

“Doesn’t mean your body doesn’t need its rest.”

“I can’t just lie awake and stare into the dark. I need to do something: I can help.”

Dick knows that argument and the sentiment behind, but it’s his duty as the big brother to be the voice of reason: “I know - You already did enough. I don’t want to bring Alfie into this...”

Tim narrows his eyes. “Traitor.”

 “Alright, I won’t – just: Please?”

“What about you? You aren’t going to bed either.”

Dick closes his eyes in defeat – and has an idea. “Point taken. How about a deal?”

“Statistics indicate deals with Neal Caffrey are inadvisable.”

Dick laughs. “Don’t worry; Neal Caffrey wouldn’t be caught dead associating with Batman and Robin.”

 Tim doesn’t object, so Dick presents his offer. “You go to bed now.” He silences Tim’s protest with a gesture. “ _And_ stay down here, so you can chime in with whatever you come up with until you fall asleep.”

“Sounds… reasonable.”

 

Tim rolls one of the cots from the infirmary in front of the computer and organizes a blanket and pillows, while Dick takes a sample from the genetic material on his escrima. He puts it into a scanner for DNA sequencing. Once that ran through he can cross-reference it against known metagene markers, isolate them and program an inhibitor collar with that information to counter the sum of the Cuckoo’s abilities; no more nasty surprises.

Dick takes a sip of coffee from the cup he commandeered and sets up a new file.

He starts with a description of the Cuckoo – or at least tries to. All he remembers however is that she had a face and hair of some sorts, which really narrows the field.

“Her powers,” Tim observes from where he is huddled up. “She must be manipulating the way your occipital lobe processes visual information, and her invisibility would fit with that theory, as well.”

Dick huffs in agreement: “No wonder she managed to drop through the cracks until now. – Well, not anymore: I slipped her a tracker.”

It is one of Mozzie’s but Neal took the liberty of tinkering with his friend’s equipment to access it remotely. The result of it is a nice map on his screen, with a friendly blinking dot traveling through Manhattan. It moves slightly slower than a car but stays on the road, maybe a scooter.

“There are cameras in that area. Maybe one caught her face.”

Maybe, but the darkness is working in her favor. Dick however knows a place she had been in broad daylight; he may not remember her face, but he knows where he recognized her from.

He hacks into the security console of Central Station and with a few clicks, dozens of small, live video feeds appear on his screen. Dick checks the angles until he finds two cameras that capture the shop he bought coffee at and rewinds their records back to quarter-to-two.

The video fills the screen as people walk in reverse, which always looks fun speed up.

“There,” Tim points out, having spotted the trademark Caffrey hat. “That’s you.”

Dick lets the recording run forward again slowly. He taps the screen with a grin: “Gotcha.” That’s her alright and she didn’t even try to avoid the cameras. It’s curious how he can recognize and describe her now that he sees her face again – maybe that memory will fade once he enters her power’s radius again? That’s something to check against the genetic layout later and then to file away for the next encounter.

He lets facial recognition run in the background and then starts working on his report, enabling the voice-to-text support to take some strain off his injured hand.

Dick starts recounting everything he knows about the case, starting with Mozzie’s incoherent witness report and his investigation at the jeweler. He attaches the security footage and the finally finished police report to his case file as well as the meager results the autopsy on Malcoms yielded.

Facial recognition, in the meantime identified his Cuckoo as Miss Mary Inkeri Steep, her place of residence a loft in the Upper East Side matching the point on the map the tracker is currently resting at. With her name and face, Dick starts digging into the woman’s past; surveillance footage helps place her at nearly a dozen murders. Not all of them fit the modus operandi Moz pointed out, and two of these murders are officially considered closed, with both culprits in custody, one of them charged with multiple homicides. Dick sighs: The case is a veritable rat’s nest of leads and incidental evidence, and the vague confession he got won’t stick.  He silently gets up to refill his cup yet again, careful not to wake Tim and returns to prod at things from a new angle, looking at the Cuckoo’s personal past and purchases, in search of motive and new evidence. There’s also the matter of how he will bring her down, get close enough to put the collar into place, despite his injuries.

 

He gets pulled out of his thoughts by the Zeta portal powering up and the bats shuffling noisily, disturbed by the vibrations. Their ruckus gives him an idea – maybe he too can use sonar or a variation of it to _see_ his opponent without having to rely on flawed visual input. He jots the thought down among his meager ideas on how to bring the Cuckoo down; right underneath the as of yet only entry that simply states _inhibitor collar_.

“Recognized: Batman – 02,” the computer announces and Bruce steps out, yanking his mask off and rubbing his face; tired but otherwise unharmed.

His brother stirs at the noise and Dick rubs his shoulder. “Go back to sleep Timmy, everything’s fine.”

Tim burrows deeper into the pillow, mumbles an intelligible reply and falls back into deep, regular breaths. Dick looks up to see the worry on Bruce’s face. He shakes his head and smiles, gesturing an all-clear and then lifts a finger to his lips.

Bruce follows his request and silently stalks closer, to not wake his youngest son. He smiles and cards a hair through his Robin’s hair, planting the other onto the back of the chair. This up close, Dick can see the crinkles of exhaustion around his father’s eyes, the light of the display reflecting in them as the man takes in what Dick has written down.

“It’s late,” Bruce finally chastises in a low voice.

Dick glances at the clock, for the first time in hours as it turns out and suddenly fatigue is catching up with him. “Or early, depends who you ask,” he talks back to cover a suppressed yawn. “Heard about the Amazo attack – everything alright?”

“Hn.” The set of jaw accompanying the grunt tells Dick all he need to know: Their team took their share of punishment, but ultimately they won and everyone will be fine, with a bit of rest. “You should head back to your apartment, go to bed.”

 “I need to wrap this up first.” Stubbornly, Neal shakes his head and reaches for his coffee only to find the cup empty again. Bruce catches his fingers on the handle, holding them in place gently enough Dick could pull free without additionally hurting his hand. He doesn’t.

“She’s after Moz.”

“And you’ll get her easier with a new perspective in the morning.”

Dick sets to protest: He can’t work on this with Peter watching over his shoulder. He needs to utilize what little time he has and what even less he has with a good computer under his hands.

Bruce just levels that look at him, like Dick is still nine and B not sure how to be react to a petulant child.  “It’s been a long day,” he degrees. “I have a meeting tomorrow and am heading to bed. You should, too. I don’t like your cover within the FBI, but that doesn’t mean I can condone you showing up in less than acceptable form.”

“I lived alone in the ‘Haven with a more tiring job under my belt and did fine. I know what I can handle.” Dick points out in defense, even if he has to admit Bruce is right. He is tired and needs the rest before facing Peter again, perceptive as the agent is.

Bruce is not impressed by his meager point. “I’ll send your files over. Go.”

“You don’t want me here?” Dick half-mockingly gasps and puts a hand over his heart in a fit of drama. “Message received.”

Bruce mouth crinkles in amusement. “Not at this hour, at least. But you are welcome to check by more often.” He nods to where Tim is still sleeping peacefully, undisturbed by their hushed voices. The relaxed expression on his brother’s face is a welcome change from the tight one usually inhabiting it. Bruce is right, he should check by more often, especially if that is one of the results. The smile on his father’s face isn’t half bad either and Dick knows that’s as close to an “I missed you” as he will get with Bruce.

“I will,” he promises. “Warn Alfie to put out another set of dishes for Sunday.”

Bruce’s heavy hand sinks down on his shoulder. “Will do, chum. Stay safe.”

Dick caresses his brother’s hair in good bye and gets up to activate the Zeta. He stays just a bit longer, to watch Bruce change out of the suit and then pick up Tim and carry him towards the elevator. It’s been a long time since he himself drifted off in front of the computer only to come to in his own bed, and while he is too big and heavy to be carried in anything else but an emergency, the memory still warms his heart.

He smiles and steps into the teleporter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not the last chapter - and how I'm tiring of saying that! The Cuckoo just doesn't want to be caught yet, and I feel it would be a real shame to cut short on all that which happens inbetween. So much for "the mission comes first."  
> The next one however will definitely, finally end this and I've got most of it already typed out since this one and the part after were originally planned to be one chapter which became so long I decided to split it in half. Enjoy!

The door to his apartment is thrown open, and Dick blinks blearily from where he burrowed his head into the pillow, barely passing for conscious. The steps on the parquet are familiar as is the blurry silhouette, so he doesn’t bother getting up to defend himself and closes his eyes again. The people who want to kill him usually are more subtle in their approach anyway. Besides, everything hurts already so what’s the worst that can happen? Dick is tired to the bone and what might have been barely more than two hours of sleep offered little remedy.

“Go away,” he slurs, turning his back to the door. “Sleep.”

“Caffrey?” Peter’s voice is sharp, tinged with worry and rebuke. Peter – crap, _Peter_.

Neal jolts into consciousness, scrambling to hide his legs under the blanket, frantically checking his anklet is in place. It is, and Neal thanks his lucky stars he had the composure to put it back on when he returned from the Cave instead of falling into bed the way he was. Taking off the anklet before breaking into a tennis club and trashing it while butting heads with a meta only provided a great alibi if that anklet was never seen anywhere but on his person.

Neal glances at the clock on his bedside table and groans: It’s already past eight and he hasn’t even started getting ready. He might get to work in the nick of time taking the roof-top express, but with Peter here that’s not even an option. But if he cuts short on breakfast and hurries with the make-up… he’s still going to be late.

“Neal?”

“Yes, sorry. Give me five minutes.” He jumps up, glad for the tank top that covers the worst of his injuries and bruises. It doesn’t however cover his cast; lets it stand out even more - he can basically feel Peter’s gaze honing in on the bandage adorning his wrist. He doesn’t need to look at his friend’s face to imagine the thunderous scowl that must be forming on the man’s features, trying to determine if he should be angry with Neal or whoever did this. Knowing Peter, it will end up being a protective mix of both.

Neal raises his hands and forgoes the inevitable question: “I’m fine. It looks much worse than it is, really.” He gives Peter a dazzling enough smile to hide the lie and the shadows he suspects must be underneath his eyes.

“Neal –“

“And it will look much better once I took a shower. Give me ten minutes and help yourself – you know where the brewer and everything else is.”

 

Neal ducks out and makes a beeline for his closet. True to his word, he hurries to undress and shrubs down as fast and efficient as he can without getting his bandages wet. He doesn’t like to keep Peter waiting: It’s late enough already and while they won’t make it to the office in time, he can at least try to cut their inevitable delay as short as possible. Also, who knows what Peter might come up with if left alone too long in brooding. The agent is smart and might just figure out Neal’s secret. Oh, the Batman would not be amused.

Neal dries his hair and brushes his teeth simultaneously, which proves more challenging than usual, thanks to his cast. And yet, the task taking up the most time is to carefully do his make-up. He conceals the bruises and dark blotches on his skin until his face doesn’t look like he did anything but sleep peacefully tonight and like he definitely had not gotten pummeled around by a super-strong mind reader.

Content with the result, he finishes it off by pulling his collar straight, smoothing out the vest he is wearing and exits his dressing room.

 

With flawless, seemingly effortless grace, Neal Caffrey reenters the stage of his apartment.

Peter looks up, pockets his phone and frowns.

“Cut it out.”

“Cut what out?”

“The Caffrey spiel, I’m not your mark. Tell me what the hell happened.” His tone of voice suggests he decided to give his partner the benefit of the doubt and rather wants to know who to send to prison for hurting him, and Neal’s smile almost broadens, despite Peter’s order to the opposite.

“Aww, so you do care” he mocks despite the warmth forming in his gut. “But really, I’m fine.” He’s had worse.

“Yeah, no, you’re not pulling that with me. I gave you leeway to work through whatever was going on with Moz and you promised to tell me everything the moment something dangerous cropped up or you are less than fine.” Neal sets to interrupt, but Peter raises his hand. “I’m not done: the moment you are less than fine in return, and a broken wrist or whatever you’re hiding is definitely outside that category. You gave me your word –“

“And I’d never lie to you,” Neal finishes Peter’s sentence under his breath, so quiet it comes out barely more than a sigh. He repeated the line so often it starts to ring bitter and hollow in his own ears. The phrase carries the cynicism that while he never lied – he also never told the truth. He cannot: He must not divulge the secrets of the Batman or his own past, not even a fraction of it. Peter only started to trust him – if he finds out Neal isn’t Neal, lied about the very basis of their relationship, too, the damage would be irreparable.

He must lie and he can, Neal tells himself again, he is after all somewhat of an expert on that field, good enough to trick a polygraph - Only that expertise fails him around those he calls his friends, vexingly astute as they all are; not that he’d expect anything less.

It’s one of his weaknesses, as his file in the Batcomputer states: After all, that was also how Barb had found out about their secret – even if it had been more of a sharp look piercing his soul and a deceivingly soft “Was Jason Robin?” that was anything but a question because she already knew, had known for ages, and just never said anything. Dick should have denied it, put on a brave, confused smile and had ended with his head at her shoulder, wreaked by sobs instead.

Just because he isn’t at the top of his game with conflict churning in his gut doesn’t mean he can just tell Peter about the meta he is going up against. The agent would wrestle the case from his hands, put him into protective custody or worse; go after the Cuckoo himself.  Peter is right; he did promise, but the truth is too dangerous still. It is his duty to protect everyone – and just continue this tightrope act between truth and lie as best as he can.

Neal catches himself playing with the cuff of his shirt, pulling it taunt until the cast is all but completely hidden. He forces himself to still his hand and act like a professional, not a scolded child. He hides his inner turmoil behind a tight smile and allows just the tiniest amount of the shame he feels to show on his face. Peter may identify it as embarrassment, but the emotion is honest, as is the defeated sigh he heaves.

 “Funny thing,” he starts in purposely fake, light tone. “You know how I sometimes throw caution to the wind when I’m hot on the trail of something?”

Peter nods, his expression tight. The agent had to suffer a fair share of that.

“Exactly that happened. Also, we’re going to be late.”

“We already are,” Peter cuts his attempt at diversion short. “I want details.”

“Fine - I was looking into someone Moz thought was following him and hit a wall. Figuratively.” And also literally, among other things, but Peter doesn’t need to know. “The arm actually was something of an accident; I hadn’t played tennis in a while. Probably won’t try it anytime soon again.” He meets Peter’s eyes, reminding himself everything he said is true and he does not have to feel guilty for anything. Yet, he flinches under the sharp gaze and scurries to incorporate it into his performance. “And now you’re looking at me like that again. That’s the reason I didn’t want to say anything, it’s embarrassing.”

Peter thankfully doesn’t call him on his bluff; either convinced or simply waiting for a time to dig deeper. Neal hopes it is the former, so he can finally focus on the Cuckoo without having to look over his shoulder, but the agent didn’t earn his nickname as the Archeologist by taking things at face-value.

Whatever it is, Peter nods and saves Neal the trouble of making things worse. “If that’s what happened, alright.” He gets up with a slap to the sofa. “Just so you know: I’m benching you. You are injured and I’m not sending you into the field in that state.”

“I told you I’m fine!,” Neal protests.

“Desk duty only, for at least a week.”

“I’m your informant and expert consultant – not an intern to shove the paperwork on!”

“Neal, I know exactly what I’m asking of you – the same I’d ask of any agent with an injury: To step down for a while and recover.”

Neal grumbles in protest: “I’m not an agent.” Even if he has a badge with his name on it hidden away somewhere…

“Paperwork sadly has to be done; I know you hate it, but your deal mandates daily attendance and I’m not letting you out into the field – or the van, which you have a habit of slipping out of.”

“It gets the job done,” Neal argues.

Peter gives him a long-suffering stare: “And is against protocol.”

Neal just shrugs and grins. That’s just how he rolls.

Peter huffs. “I’ll talk to Reese: We’ll work things out so you don’t have to stay the whole day, and call you in when there’s something requiring your expertise.”

“Your terms are acceptable,” Neal degrees in mimicry of Mozzie’s voice. In his own, he adds: “Thanks.”

Peter sends a flat look. “It’s mutually beneficial: I don’t want to waste my or my agents’ time having to babysit you just because you’re bored, Caffrey.  Now let’s go.”

 

Neal doesn’t bother to retort, but his lips pull into a smug smile as he throws on his jacket and slips through the door Peter is holding open for him. They make their way downstairs and towards the door. Before they reach it however, they get intercepted by June who gives Neal his hat and a chiding look taking in his injuries – Neal is pretty sure she even knows about his cracked rips despite the easy and straight posture he keeps. She is perceptive that way and her instincts haven’t dulled a bit since she retired as private investigator; it is as futile to try hide something from her as it is to try with Alfred. He dreads the day should both of them meet…

Neal smiles to signal June he is okay, despite being more than a bit sore. He takes the fedora from her with a thanks; he could have gotten it himself from where he left it, at the hook behind the door, but he honestly appreciates the gesture and the warmth it summons in his chest. With the cast around his wrist, Neal skips the usual flourish and places it on his head like a boring person instead. Something is off though, the weight unfamiliar in his hand not only because he is used to holding it in his right.

He cocks a quizzical eyebrow at his landlady, but gets only a knowing and aggravatingly vague smile in return. Neal is definitely missing whatever is going on and how he hates being out of the loop! With Peter at his side however, he can’t start fumbling with his hat to find out what is different or hidden there: Be it con- or vigilante business, that’d render the secrecy moot. Neal restrains his irritation and tips his chapeau in greeting, nudging it into a playful tilt in the process, before following Peter out of the door.

In the car, he takes it off again. Barely able to restrain his curiosity, Neal starts playing with his hat and subtly pats it down – or maybe not as subtly as he thought. Peter throws him an irritated stare and a raised eyebrow.

“Stop fidgeting.”

Neal rolls his eyes, but his phone chimes with a new message so he obliges with a sarcastic “Yes, sir” and one last defiant twirl before flinging the hat onto the dashboard. He fishes for his phone and flips it open; one SMS from an unknown number.

It reads: _Hope you like my gift – the Suit deterred me from handing it to you but June was so kind to pass it on. You’ll find it an improved version yesterday’s prototype_

While he is reading what can only be Mozzie’s text, his phone vibrates with the message’s continuation.

_In material, function and esthetics to fit your ensemble. I am unharmed – spent the night under the radar and only received your message this morning._

Neal reaches for his fedora again, earning himself an annoyed glare from the agent. He tugs his lips into an apologetic smile and returns to patting down his hat. Now that he knows what to look for, Neal quickly finds the small cables running underneath the head band and what might be a thin layer of metal inside the lining. He is impressed with the elegance of the concept and the time it must have taken to implement the telepathic shield. Turns out Mozzie, too, was busy after escaping the Cuckoo.

Neal quickly types out his own reply: _I’m glad you are safe and thank you for the disruptor, beautiful work! Meet you during my break/after work?_

He doesn’t know yet when that will be; there is still Peter’s simultaneous threat and promise of a contingent in paperwork and the rest of the day off that may or may not come to pass. If Peter manages to get it through with his superiors, Neal is not going to complain: Less time in the office means more time to follow those leads and the sooner the Cuckoo is off the streets and Mozzie’s trail, the better. And if that goes over fast and well enough – there is a surprising amount of cons and covers that involve casts...

 _I’ll stop by_ , Mozzie confirms. It will do his friend good, to step into the sunlight again after holing himself up. The tracer is a great means to track the Cuckoo's movements and paired with the additional protection of a mental shielding device, Moz can finally get out of the house again without straight out risking his life.

 

Neal spends the rest of the drive pondering how to eliminate the remainder of the threat on his friend's safety - and on himself. When they meet up, he'll have to ask how Moz perceived what little he saw of the Cuckoo; if he is lucky, the man's tinfoil construction provided enough interference to cancel out the lady's invisibility. If he isn't, Neal still has to find a way to fight her - or maybe avoid fighting at all. It would probably be the best to sneak up on her once he has enough evidence and just tranquilize her. With his injuries, an open confrontation might be less than wise, and while Neal likes to just leap into action, he is not stupid.

 

Just a quarter of an hour late, they arrive at the bureau. Peter gestures him to wait, while the agent walks up to his superior's office, so Neal slumps down at his desk and starts bouncing and abusing his rubber-band ball. It's decent training to help keep his wrist mobile without putting too much strain on it and an even an better remedy to sitting still with nothing to do. With all the agents in the room, he can’t access and work on the files he created in the Cave – even if he could hide what he is working on, he is still Neal Caffrey: He has a cover to maintain and that includes not appearing to be too eager to get to work in the first place.

Thankfully, Diana is steering towards his desk, and the stack in her arm hinting on business. 

Neal plasters his extra charming smile on, the one that always provokes secret amusement from the agent, hidden behind her nonchalant facade.

“Hey Diana, how are you this wonderful morning?”

She snorts, snatching his ball out of the air and dropping it on his desk together with two files.

"Morning, Caffrey," she greets coolly. "Boss told us to make sure you don't get bored."

"And you were only too happy to oblige? Why, thank you." Neal’s voice is dripping with sarcasm as he snatches his toy back up.

She flashes him an amused grin. "No trouble at all.”

He heaves a dramatic sigh, accepting his fate.  "What have you got? A new angle to the Lunar Lotus?"

Diana shakes her head. “New case cropped up: We need to find the connection between these two,” she taps on the files.

“And when you say _we_ you mean _I_ have to.”

“You got it, Caffrey. Now get to work, everything you need is inside, the rest of our intel on the server.”

Neal gives the rubber ball one last defiant bounce and then drops it into one of the drawers of his desk.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Attaboy.”

 

Neal dives into the task, happy to do something useful and banishing all thoughts off his Cuckoo problem for a while, to return to it later with a brand new perspective. He is dutifully working through the phone records of a suspect, looking for a pattern among the calls in combination with the bank records to find out just where the misappropriated funds went. Neal is racking his brain, but no matter how he looks at it, the numbers just don’t add up. He is so caught up in his calculations, not even the sound of heels purposefully steering towards his desk startles him out of his concentration. Only when a shadow falls onto the file he is tapping his pencil on, he looks up in surprise and gapes at the stunning redhead looming above him.

 “Sara! What are you doing here?” He tries to keep the happiness to see her again out of his voice in favor of disapproving sternness and definitely doesn't bounce up. Surprise visits are not cool.

“Hey there, Mister _I don’t need any help, I can handle this on my own_ ,” Barb grins, obviously seeing through his act.

Neal pushes the file aside, embraces her with his good arm and presses a chaste kiss to her cheek. “It's great to see you. Everything alright?”

Barb’s mouth curls into a disapproving frown. “It was until this morning, when the Boss told me about your stunt.”

“He what?”

“Well, Tim did first, although rather vaguely and his message boiled down to an ‘I should go check on you’.”

Neal brightens. “He makes an excellent wingman. Wait, don’t hit me, that wasn’t even intended as a pun.” Wingman would actually be a brilliant name for a sidekick – but Neal put Nightwing behind him for a reason and not once considered taking in a protégé; he’d never return for a glorious but ultimately stupid idea like that.

Barb snorts. “I sure hope so; it was horrible even by your standards. And don’t change the subject. B sent me your report over and I am genuinely disappointed you did not bother to put out a call and instead risked your stupid ass on your own.”

“A very good-look-“  
“Don’t.” Her sharp reprimand cuts him right off.

Neal takes a deep breath and objects, careful to keep his voice down. “You read the files, you know there was no way I could have been prepared for _that_.” He gestures for all the mess the Cuckoo’s abilities entailed. “I knew I could get out and the plan was never to retain her, not with the lack of evidence we have.”

Barb grimaces in annoyance. “I know, just…”

Neal smirks. “Be more careful?”

That earns him an elbow jabbed into his ribs. Barb is not really mad; she thankfully went for his good side.

Neal still puts on a show by rubbing his chest and fainting hurt. “Gee, thanks, message received.”

“Careful is a given. I was going to go with better prepared.”

She pulls something from her bag and places a sleek black case on his desk with a flourish, smooth enough he almost doesn’t notice his stack now contains a file more. Unable to restrain his curiosity, he lifts the lid and takes a peek into the box. Inside rests the inhibitor he started programming - although he planned to finish and get it himself later. Neal doesn’t mind the delivery, but he could have gone with a more discreet method. Barb knows full well how easily his coworkers can catch on to what is inside and then grill him for answers. Maybe that’s her form of punishment. He closes the box again and, knowing Barb saw the glare he send her, schools his scowl into a teasing smile

 “Aww, you shouldn't have. I'm not really the jewelry type.”

“That stylish anklet of yours begs to differ, boy wonder.”

“Really? I rather thought it exemplified my point.”

“It gives you a certain je-ne-sais-quoi. I like men who aren’t afraid to accessorize.” The smile she gives him is sharper than any he has seen from ‘Sara’ before - and does things to him that have no place in whatever is going on right now, especially not under the watchful eyes of a dozen FBI agents.

Neal hides his reaction behind amused confusion, not quite knowing what to reply.

Barb smirks. “Cat got your tongue, Caffrey?”

“It’s folly to argue a compliment.” Or fight battles he can’t win, for that matter.

“Wise words. Show some more of that wisdom and take care, okay?”

“You know me.” Neal shrugs one-sidedly and grins.

“At least try.” Her hand moves to his chest in what must look like a caress or a playful poke, but her fingers threateningly ghost over a bundle of nerves at his neck.

He catches her hand and breaths a kiss onto her finger. “What do I get in return?”

 “ _Dick_ ,” she hisses, but it doesn’t carry the venom of an insult. She also doesn’t pull her hand away and the lack of a slap or chiding remark completely pulls the rug out from under his feet.

Neal’s face splits into a wide grin. “Name-calling? That’s low.”

Barb lifts an eyebrow in amusement. “You deserve it. Well, what do you want in return?”

A lot; a lot that is going beyond their friendship and their cover. Until now, Barb had always gently but firmly rejected his advances and Neal can’t believe he is reading the situation right. He tries to not get ahead of himself. “What are you willing to offer?”

“We could try dinner again – this time, without work getting in the way.”

“I’d very much like that.”

She laughs. “Yeah, thought you would. If I learn you went into anything alone and got injured again our deal is off.”

Neal rolls his eyes in defiance, but agrees. “Fine.” Her conditions are stupid, but it’s not like he planned on another slip-up like tonight anyway and the result is definitely worth the stipulations.

“It’s nice to see you be reasonable for once.”

Neal gives in to childish impulse and sticks out his tongue.

“Really, Caffrey?” Barb rolls her eyes, and then stills, her eyes widening the only indication she must be receiving a transmission; Bruce and years in the field trained the instinctual motion towards ones ear out of them. “I have to go, remember your promise and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” She throws him a kiss and then motions to leave.

“Say hello to the Team for me – and heed your own advice.”

 

Barb raises her hand in acknowledgement and struts towards the exit. She nods curtly as she passes Peter. “Agent Burke.”

“Miss Ellis.”

 

Peter strolls over, eyes following Sara as she storms out of the office. “What was that about?”

“Just a visit. She was in the area.”

“That was a rather energetic exit for a simple visit. What happened?” Peter is skeptical and Neal squirms under the agent’s gaze.

“People do that, you know, stop by to talk. She just got a call from work.”

“You, Caffrey, and a lady: that’s a recipe for trouble, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Neal grimaces. “You’re going to give me that lecture, too?”

“Lecture? Just stating a fact.” Peter frowns and then shrugs it off. “I don’t care what or whom you do in your free time, as long as I don’t end up with a tasered CI.”

“We’re getting along better,” Neal reassures his friend and tries to hide the giddiness coming with that statement behind a poor mask of nonchalance. It obviously isn’t working, so he settles for a smirk. “She didn’t even pull her baton on me.”

“That good?” Peter chuckles and pats Neal on the back. “Congratulations, Romeo. I’ve got good news for you, too: You finish what Diana handed you and then you can head home for the day, provided nothing new crops up and you don’t change your mind. I know you hate deskwork, but you are surprisingly competent at it once you stop talking back and we can always use your input.”

“Thanks?” Peter of course can’t know that, but Neal better be good at it: Bruce had him give and write reports since the very moment he revealed being Batman, and that hadn’t changed later on. As a detective, both in uniform and costume, he had gotten plenty practice, even if some of his write-ups had ended up scribbled next to the fatty stains of take-out cardboard, to be typed out at a later time that never came.

Neal glances at the box with the inhibitor inside that is still sitting on his desk in plain view. He had been too slow to hide it before Peter could see it and trying to subtly wisp is away now would only draw the agent’s attention, if it hasn’t already. There is also the matter of the file underneath it Neal hadn’t yet the opportunity to read.

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer though,” he decides, to have more time on his hands for that other case of his. “At least for today – and since I have to finish this up first, I’d better get back to it.”

Peter shakes his head. “Who are you and what have you done to my CI?”

“Ha ha, very funny. I’m just motivated to get this over with. You know, with sweet Freedom calling out for me.”

“As long as you don’t follow her voice for more than two miles…”

“I’d be content with getting out of this office for a start.”

Instead of reprimanding him for that remark, Peter’s face clinches up and in context of this conversation Neal can only draw one conclusion.

“Wait a second, are _you_ going out?”

“Only for a stake-out, _boring_ really by your definition. I’ll think of you when I eat my sandwich.”

Neal’s nose scrunches up at the allusion to deviled ham. “You do that. And I hope you miss me when you realize things are much more fun when I’m around.” He pauses. “Is that surveillance in relation to the numbers Diana had me check?”

“Actually, it’s something Simmons has been working on and had a breakthrough in. Why?”

Neal digs the file he had been going through out of his pile to show his findings, subtly nudging the items Barb left out of the way. He opens it at one of the pages he marked up and Peter leans over to have a better look.

“I’m not done yet, but I’m sure Reilly was trying to sell something under the radar. By the numbers he was dialing he probably hasn’t had any success yet. I recognize most of them and they are outdated by a year or two,” Neal explains, tapping the calls in question with the pen he discreetly liberated from Peter’s pocket. “You could set up a sting and I can play the fence.”

“Good job but no, you will not. You’re benched, remember?” The agent frowns and pulls the writing utensil from Neal’s fingers. “Also, I believe that’s mine.”

“I can do more with one hand than most other can do with two and I have extensive, of course purely theoretical, expertise on these kinds of transactions,” Neal stresses as he hands the pen back. He has no need for it beyond proving to Peter - and himself - he can still pull his tricks, even restricted by a cast.

“I bet you do.” Peter grimaces, his face expressing something between annoyance and apology. “But for now you’ll sit back down, double check that and leave it on my desk when you’re done.”

 “Peter!”

“Together with any suggestions you have for how to catch him in the act. We’ll talk about them when I get back – and about that expertise of yours you mentioned.”

“ _Theoretical_ expertise,” Neal reminds him.

“Sure.” Peter’s lips quirk in fond bemusement.

He pats Neal on the shoulder and then marches off, to gather his team for a final debrief before heading out to the surveillance.

 

Neal, left to his own devices, gets back to work. He sends the file Barb left for him a wistful glance: The folder is tempting him to throw just a look inside but Neal knows himself good enough to admit he won’t be able to pull his attention away from that case to finish his task, if he gives in now. To help follow through with his resolution, Neal takes the file off his desk and slips it into a drawer. He’ll read it through the second he is done with his FBI work.

With that in mind he returns to sifting through the list of calls and transactions, marking what he deems suspicious and annotating the numbers he recognizes. In the digital document, he adds cross-references to the fences he thinks deserve a bit of federal attention and summarizes what he found out. The link to the second file Diana gave him is in a single phone call, dating a few days back. Reilly had called Morris and the man, having spent time in the pen and knowing his way around the underworld, probably had given Reilly the numbers he tried to reach in the subsequent days. When he is done, Neal finishes off by leaving a post-it on top of the physical file: _I’m holding that recommendation you asked for hostage. I want in on this sting, Peter._

Then he discreetly checks no one is looking and finally gets to satisfy his curiosity by thumbing through what Barb left for him: A note in perfectly anonymous shorthand tells him she uploaded a copy to his wrist computer to peruse in privacy. Under that he finds what he typed out in the Cave in printed form, adorned with annotations that weren’t there before and whole segments and sources he doesn’t remember, like a list of aliases and accounts linked to the Cuckoo and an honest to god copy of the FBI file he last read the name Steep in, the bank robbery gone wrong cold case. Neal isn’t even sure that one exists in digital form, but he wouldn’t put it past anyone in his family to just walk in and copy it. The real question is: When did they even find the time to? Bruce had been tired to the bone when he arrived through the Zeta, Tim had been asleep and – okay, Barb might have combined it with her visit just now, and if Bruce had gotten a look at his notes and delegated research to Alfie and Lucius… Still a frigging lot of work Neal wouldn’t have been able to do on his own, not in such a short timeframe.

He shoots off quick _thank you_ to both Barb and Bruce, not sure yet who else was involved in making him feel guilty by taking over his job and cutting into their own precious time for sleep.

Neal smiles and starts thumbing through the compiled results: As he had already found out and suspected, the Cuckoo is indeed the daughter of the clerk who had died nine years ago. Orphaned at the age of thirteen, she had been taken in and later adopted by her aunt in Connecticut. When she hit her majority, she returned to New York and turned to arts, earning a measly keep by writing her own novels. Dramatic experiences could have that effect, Neal knew first hand, bring forth the creative frame in which to voice, face and sooth one’s own thoughts. And as a telepath, he reckons, the thoughts of others as well.

What little royalties Miss Steep earned under the pen name of Isabel Laurel - a play on her mother’s first and maiden name - definitely wasn’t enough to fund the rent of her penthouse in such prime location. Maybe the Cuckoo is influencing her landlord with her powers or maybe she is paying from a hidden fund, the one her loot is flowing into. Neal hasn’t yet found any references to additional accounts nor has his family, but that only means they didn’t follow the money far enough and have to keep digging still.

His phone chimes with an incoming message and demands his attention. Neal unlocks it, to find Barb has send him a text in reply: _What can I say except: You’re welcome~_

To fill an afternoon that had unpredictably cleared up a few weeks back, they had all met up in New York to watch the movie. Stupid as the song was, that single line sufficed for it to be stuck in Neal’s head again. He groans and types out an annoyed smiley.

 _Something wrong?_ Neal can all too well imagine the cheshire grin Barb must be sporting right now, as she is watching over the domain of books under her rule and probably keeping an eye on hero affairs on the side, too.

 _I like my animated movies to be classics_ , he replies.

It only takes a second for her to shoot back: _Snob_

_Oh, I’m the snob? Says the one who doesn’t appreciate a good action flick._

_Good is debatable. More like highly inaccurate, campy and/or cheesy and poorly plotted._

_Exactly my point!_

_Let’s agree to disagree._

_So we should just… Let it go?_ Even if she can’t see it, Neal doesn’t bother to suppress a grin; oh sweet vengeance, he knows she hates the song – especially with how he caught her humming it despite her dislike for the popular tune.

_Idiot._

While he is at it, Neal types out a message to Moz telling his friend he is almost done with his work and free to meet up. Before he sends the text though, Neal remembers to check the Cuckoo’s location. Her tracker is currently stationary in the vicinity of Alphabet City, far enough away to not pose a risk. He juts the address down to check out later, just in case there is something of interest to the investigation in the area.

Mozzie’s answer comes within seconds, a convoluted mess comprised of numbers and letters. Neal knows what location the code refers to, even if he never was able to figure out the pattern Moz uses to come up with it – if there even is one. Knowing his friend, the ID is generated completely random. Why the man can’t just say ‘Let’s meet at that Serbian we were at last week’, like normal people is beyond him. Even Bruce isn’t that complicated.

He humors his friend nonetheless: _OMW. See you in twenty_

 

Neal clears his desk, dropping the collar and file into a bag he still had from a coffee run. For a moment he contemplated locking the file up in his desk, but he rather kept damning evidence where he could see it. He makes sure nobody is looking at him, lest they suspect him of stealing FBI material and then walks over to Diana’s desk. Neal drops off the file she had him working on and knows she read the post-it on top, when a wry smile forms on her lips.

“Caffrey, the FBI doesn’t negotiate.”

Neal gives her a pointed look and lifts the leg of his pants enough for her to see the anklet. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

 “Not my problem,” she shrugs, refusing any discussion. “Take it up with the boss, if you have to.”

“Oh, I will,” Neal grumbles for show. “See you tomorrow.”

“Uhu, you go and slack off for the rest of the day.”

Neal grins. “With your leave…”

She starts reading through his files and waves him off; something Neal doesn’t need to be told twice. He picks up his hat and bag, then takes the elevator to ground level.

Fifteen minutes later, he reemerges onto a different street, leaving the cool air of the subway system behind. From there on, it’s only a short walk to the _Beograd_ , where it is tugged away into an alley. Its interior is beautifully romantic, white walls imitating organic stone structures with mirrors on them to generate the aesthetic of additional windows and space. Those have the nice side effect of granting a view to the isle connecting the booths and the door, granting both privacy and a great overview of the place. Today however, the restaurant has a few tables set out in the open, where people get to enjoy the last golden warmth of October.  At one of them, Neal spots a familiar figure hidden behind an open newspaper. Neal plops down opposite his friend and flags down a waiter to order a glass of the same red Moz is perusing and some water on the side.

“Neal,” Moz acknowledges his presence but doesn’t lower the paper, so maybe he isn’t actually hiding but reading instead and looking auspicious just has become second nature to him by now. Either way, Neal decides to ignore the barrier between them.

“So,” Neal starts, “how does it feel walking under the light of sun again?”

“I prefer to stay in the shadows.” The newspaper is finally being lowered and folded up - and Neal almost laughs. Moz is sporting a toupee again.

“Stylish,” he comments drily. “Haven’t seen that in a while, and didn’t miss it.”

The blond curls actually don’t look that bad – Neal always had an irrational fondness for mullets - even if the hair doesn’t look quite natural:  The other con looks younger with the flop of hair but it detracts from Mozzie’s… mozzieness.

His friend is piqued: “ _I_ like it – and unlike you I’m not a hat person.”

“Oh.” It takes only a moment for Neal to catch on what Moz means by this apparent non-sequitur. So the new hair isn’t only a fashion statement. Moz must have hid the wiring of another contraption underneath the fake locks. “I take it back: It’s a great alternative to tinfoil.”

Moz send him a reprimanding look, clearly still miffed Neal insulted his headwear.

“Fashion choices aside, the insulators are a brilliant idea. Where did you even learn how to build something like that?”

Moz is warming up, his indignity melting under the well-deserved praise. “Oh sweet innocence. The internet is a wondrous place, mon frère.”

“Yeah, but a lot on there is complete bogus,” Neal points out and takes a sip of his newly arrived drink. He knows people who make sure that the real blueprints for stuff like that get taken down the minute they are posted or altered to the point they no longer work; the world is crazy enough already, without every nerd with a grudge and a computer turning into a supervillain.

“Most is – but not everything. I compiled what I could find, isolated common elements, had a few interesting chats and threw my own ideas into the mix – et voila.”

Impressive, but also awfully experimental. Neal warily squints up at his hat. “It’s not going to fry my brain, is it?”

“The prototype was … unstable,” Moz admits, “but since then I had a lot of time to work out all the kinks and improve upon my earlier designs.”

Neal can’t help but wonder when exactly Moz started losing his hair and if there is a correlation to those early experiments, but he doesn’t voice his thought. “That’s good enough for me. I trust you and your expertise.”

“Thank you, I’ll drink to that.”

Moz lifts his glass in toast and Neal meets it with his own. For a few moments they sit in silence, each caught up in their own thoughts and perusing the menu. Neal decides on the ražnjići with rice and peperonata and then places his order.

When the waiter moves on to the next table and is out of immediate earshot, Neal resumes their conversation.

“So, how are you holding up, aside from keeping busy? Last night _was_ rough.”

“I survived Detroit and came out on top,” Moz brushes the inquiry off which is almost an answer in itself – Not that Neal will make it that easy on his friend.

“I jumped from a private jet onto a high-speed train.”

 “Wait, when –?”

“Oh, I thought we were randomly bragging, because _that_ didn’t answer my question.”

Moz snorts. “If you must know: I feel great for almost having a heart attack and narrowly missing a date with Mistress Death. – What about you? After all, I wasn’t the one who got manhandled by a meta. I was only there for half of the show, but it looked bad when we split up.” Moz gaze is fixed onto his glass and he takes a shaky gulp. Neal doesn’t miss how his friend’s voice wavers at that last part, testament to guilt and worry Neal, too, is familiar with.

“I’m fine,” he assures Moz, shrugging with his bandaged arm. “Except for this little souvenir I got out unharmed.”

“I was worried,” Moz admits hesitantly. “I shouldn't have left you behind.”

“No, don't,” Neal resolutely cuts his friend and any stammering that is likely to follow short. “I told you to run and you did. Thank you for trusting me.”

“That still leaves me in the company of those who state they were only following orders as a means to placate their conscience- Poor company indeed.”

“We both know that's complete bull: First there's nothing to placate your conscience over and second splitting up is common get-away strategy.” Neal shrugs. “Just for the record, I'm glad you listened to me; left me room for more creative techniques.”

“Reckless is more like it.”

“Tomato, _tomato_.”

"Exactly that attitude landed you with the Feds." Moz sends him a reprimanding scowl: "I don't know why I even put up with you."

"Because I'm the best partner you ever had and I put up with you in return?"

The glare doesn't lessen, but Neal is used to intense, brooding looks and just shrugs it off.

"Face it, Moz: You have your techniques, I have mine, and together we're darn effective."

Moz scoffs something incomprehensible in response, which usually amounts to begrudging agreement in Neal's experience - or, Neal turns at feeling a presence approaching from behind, the offering of a temporary truce. It's bad form to fight during a meal.

They both get their dishes placed before them and then dig in in mutual agreement of hearty silence.

 

When they are done eating, Moz gives Neal a ride home in his taxi - even leaving the meter of without a comment, further proof to the guilt the man still must feel. To prove there is no animosity on his side, Neal invites his friend up into his apartment. Moz however excuses himself: After three days of absence he has to check each one of his aliases in order to keep them alive and from being connected to another. Even Neal doesn't know how many names the other con-man has, but he is familiar with the struggle: It is easier and less conspicuous to procedurally spin a story instead of creating a heap of alibis and background in retrospect. Neal knows how tedious the task of having a name on the side can be and can empathize how much busier Moz must be with the plethora of identities at the man's disposal.

As far as the general public is concerned, Dick Grayson is currently travelling around the globe, supposedly living in a ger somewhere in the dry Gobi right now, which makes matters easy: Paparazzi rarely get lost in that part of the world so no one expects any news from him. Before that however he had pretended visiting the metropoles of India and made sure to spread a few photos of himself through some of the social media accounts he hid behind. These images show someone who looks slightly different from Neal: Just a tiny bit taller, with a tad darker tan and always wearing a pair of sunglasses. Some of the pictures are real, as real as make-up, tall shoes and short trips through the zeta get, but most are plain image manipulation and sometimes even shapeshifter doppelgangers.

While Dick Grayson would undoubtedly be asleep right now - time zones and all - next to a native, as beautiful and sturdy as her country, Neal Caffrey doesn't have that luxury and his work cut out for him: He plans to work through the data submitted by the tracer for any information they missed, maybe even a new hint to the jewels from the most recent heist and older jobs.

With that explanation - at least the latter part of it -, and the reminder that his door is always open for the other man, Neal lets Moz go, before taking the stairs up to his apartment.

He sets up a can of coffee while he changes from his work clothes into something more comfortable, less Caffrey. With his laptop and a pack of ice to placate the pain in his chest, he slumps down on the couch. Neal types away on his laptop to open the encrypted connection that allows him to access the files on the Batcomputer remotely. The procedure is as secure as it gets: The information stored on the Cave's servers gets rerouted over several of WE's satellites and requiring several levels of identification. And through a special program that merely acts as a browser, none of the actual files leave a trace on his device.

Neal once again reads through what his family found for him and his own compiled thoughts. Now, without having to look over his shoulder and making sure no agent accidentally gets a look at what he is working on, he can finally focus solely on the information on his screen.

Among the items on his screen is the file from the cold case he had already gotten a look at a few days ago: The bank robbery he had foregone in favor of the yet missing diamond. While he still doesn’t have a clue where the gemstone is, Neal feels he can shed some light onto the dark proceedings of the other case with his newly gained knowledge of the Cuckoo's background:

There is a certain pattern to congenital superpowers, he knows from experience. In ninety percent of all cases, they surface for the first time in situations of physical or emotional duress, during or in the aftermath of traumatic experiences.

According to the police's report on the bank robbery, Mary Inkeri Not-then-Cuckoo had witnessed her mother being shot. Assuming this was what triggered her abilities, she could have read the robbers’ thought and recognized him by them. And despite being a child, she would still have possessed remarkable strength; enough, to clobber a man to death with his own gun.

Of course, that is only a theory; as nicely as it fits with what Neal knows, he has yet to find any evidence to back it up. Just like with her other crimes, it seems impossible to nail the Cuckoo down. Neal is aware it is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data, as the world’s other greatest detective once phrased it. With that in mind, it however grants him a potential insight into the lady's agenda and warped motivation. Following that train of thought and applying Gotham's special brand of logic Neal looks further into the last months of Laura Steep's life. If the death of her mother is what triggered the Cuckoo's mad agenda, she might have preserved old patters or kept other connections and memorabilia.

It takes a while to research more about her past, but it is worth the effort; when Neal checks locations significant to her past life with the tracking data of the last twelve hours - he finds a match:

The apartment she had inhabited with her mother at the corner of B and 5th East, until she moved to her nearest relatives, still exists. The building as well as the shop on its first floor belongs to a Mr. and Mrs. Bukowski since the nineties. Sadly, the current tenants except one are not listed in the phonebook or in online records, but Neal plans to remedy that lack of insight by paying the place a visit.

He leaves his cup in the drain and prepares to head out, donning a layer of protective padding and  one of his bulletproof suits. It’s not one of Byron's old ones but a birthday gift from Bruce: reinforced with a special nanoweave it even grants protection against stab wounds and the legs are cut wide enough Neal can both hide his anklet - he doesn't dare remove it while Peter is awake and liable to check it - and strap a weapon to his calves.

He puts his watch in place, the one that doubles as the civilian equivalent of his holographic wrist computer and adds the inhibitor collar Barb brought over to his arsenal. Even folded up, it is too big for compartments of his civilian belt, so he clicks a new compartment into place to keep it as easily accessible as his lock picks and evidence kit. Neal doesn't plan on a confrontation, but he won't make the mistake of underestimating his opponent twice. He is injured already and contrary to popular belief doesn't actually try to get himself killed.

Content with the state of his equipment, Neal heads for the door. He only hides the physical file as an afterthought, squeezing it between mattress and frame of his bead before he finally is en route to the Steeps’ old apartment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adventure's conclusion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold! At long last, I proudly present the eight and final chapter. Remember when this was supposed to be a one-shot? Anyone?

Neal takes the subway and walks the last few meters. The tracer he slipped the Cuckoo places her at her apartment downtown, so Neal takes his time staking out the address, getting a feel for the neighborhood and building. He’s been in this part of town before, of course, but it looks different from the dark rooftops than it does from the street in broad daylight.

The address at least is easy enough to find: The shop on the first floor is proclaiming its dealing in antiques and antiquarian books in broad golden letters on the window front, followed by the proud owner’s names. Guided by curiosity, Neal steps inside. With the door behind him closing, New York's busy streets are drowned out by the musky warm silence inside the shop. It’s the kind of place that feels like time stops working the moment one steps through the door and the obligatory bell chimes.

An elderly woman, Neal suspects her to be Mrs. Bukowski, greets him from next to the counter, where she is sitting in a rocking chair and reading her way through a crinkled newspaper. She seems to spend the largest part of her day in that place, if the dish with homemade cookies is any indication.

She puts down her reading glasses to let them hand around her neck, and addresses Neal. “Can I help you, young man?”

“Just looking around, ma'am, if that's alright.”

“Of course. Call me if you need anything.” She returns to reading, placing her spectacles back on her nose and wetting a finger to turn the pages.

 

Neal allows himself to get sidetracked for a few minutes, and looks through the racks with genuine curiosity; there might be something here of interest after all. He's heard of Rembrandts gathering dust in an unsuspecting peddler’s shop and magical artifacts that were passed from hand to hand until their power was finally forgotten.

Instead of anything truly valuable or fancy, he stumbles upon a print. It shows a romantic Mediterranean mountain range, its frame fashioned from dark wood with thin golden inlay and set off by a passe-partout. Neal gets out the small pocket magnifier he's carrying on his key ring and has a closer looks. The individual strokes the image consists of are tapered in the form characteristic to copperplate prints. A small inscription identifies the piece simply as 'Mountain III' and dates it back to 1835. With the thin glass in place above it’s hard to verify the age, but it looks authentic. Age alone however doesn't mean it is a rarity or especially valuable: The Italian name of the artist sounds only vaguely familiar in tone alone and the technique allowed these prints to be mass produced. It is the motive that enamors Neal with the piece of art, the clear style in which even the individual leaves are portrayed - and that there still is a naked spot in just the right size on the wall next to his bed.

Neal turns to find the shopkeeper's watchful gaze on himself.

“Found something interesting?”

“That I did.” He points towards the print. “Does ‘interesting’ have a price tag?”

She puts her newspaper aside, pushes up from her chair, and awakens the computer on the counter with a swipe of the mouse. From what is mirrored in the vitrine behind her, Neal could easily make out Mrs. Bukowski’s password, but he patiently waits for her to find the item in her database.

“Seventy dollars and it’s yours.”

“Done,” Neal agrees. At an auction the print might fetch up to two hundred, but he wouldn't have been willing to leave more than a Benjamin. “I'll take it, but I still have business in the area," he confides," can I come back in, say, an hour or two and pick it up?"

“No problem”, the shopkeeper agrees and puts the item behind the counter. "A friend should take over for me later though. What name shall I put down?"

“Halden,” Neal replies without pause.

Mrs. Bukowski rummages for a pen and post it, to scribble a short note on.

“We'll keep it back for the rest of the day and I'll tell her, so there won't be a problem, Mr. Halden,” the old woman smiles.

Neal thanks her and wishes her a nice day, before he leaves. He exits the shop and finds the entrance to the apartments easily enough, in a narrow alcove next to the window front. The door isn't much of an obstacle, protected only by an old-fashioned, simple lock. Neal gets his picks out and forces it in the same amount of time it would have taken him had he the actual keys.

Behind the door he is met by an equally narrow hallway. Neal checks the mailboxes for the names of the tenants and the plaque belonging to the apartment in the fourth floor catches his eyes: The nametag was written by hand and is bleached out to the point of being nigh illegible. To someone looking for it, it definitely reads ' _Steep_ ' though.

Neal bounds up the stairs and easily finds the flat he is looking for. Its door stands out, being remarkably new and additionally secured by an electronic lock. Nothing he can't handle. Neal rings the bell and stills, listening into the flat and hallway. Everything is silent, except for the low rumble of cars passing by outside. To be sure he waits a moment longer and when there is no audible reaction, Neal sets to work. He takes out a screwdriver, opens the box and disengages the security measure, by-passing the circuitry to prevent an alarm.

His phone chooses that very moment to aggressively vibrate in his pocket and anyone else would have jumped. Neal however forces himself to calmly finish up and slip into the apartment. He eases the door shut behind himself and checks he is alone, before he whips out his phone.

The buzz was an alert someone just breached his own apartment and Neal is aware of the cosmic irony behind that. A quick check of his hidden cameras however shows it is just Moz, looking to be fine and under no duress. The only threat his friend's unsupervised present entails is to Neal's wine rack, so he decides to ignore the alert and lets the inquiring call about his absence that follows go to voicemail.

With that settled, Neal returns his attention to the place he just entered:

The hallway is clean but dusty, hardwood floor hidden underneath a coconut carpet. There is a faded mat behind the door, with a homely welcome message printed on top and several pairs of shoes lined at the wall; female cut, size six and coated in dust bunnies, as are the coats hanging above from a rack. The walls are cluttered with pictures, more to Neal's interest: handprints and first artistic escapades of a child and photographs of a woman in her late thirties and what is presumably the little artist in her arms. Neal recognizes the lady as the deceased clerk, Laura Steep, making the little girl no other than the Cuckoo in her youth.

At the end of the short hallway, an arc leads into the living area, but Neal checks the four doors first. They are closed but unlocked. Behind the first one on the right waits a bathroom; decked in simple white tiles and housing the necessities expect from such a room. Curiously enough though, Neal doesn't find any signs of life here. There are none of the items he would associate with a female inhabitant; no hairbrush, no lotions of any kind, not even soap or a toothbrush.

When he enters the room opposite, Neal starts seeing a pattern: It must have been outfitted for a young teenage girl, with glossy posters of bands and male stars from a decade past smiling from the walls and progressive height markings in the frame of the door, going up to 4,8 before stopping. This place, too, is clean but not in use, feeling eerily frozen in time.

Neal knows his way around death and remembrance, and he can't fault the Cuckoo for wanting to always be able to return home. This must have been her room and he can't help but feel a wave of sympathy; killer or not, at the end of the day she is still a human being who obviously hurts.

Next door is another bedroom, bigger and with a full-sized bed spacey enough for two adults. Here, finally, Neal finds something of interest: On the bedside table, sits a framed picture of a smiling Laura, surrounded by unlit but half burned candles - clearly intended as a memorial to the deceased. This at least must have been added after the lady’s death and as such they are probably the newest items Neal has seen in the apartment thus far.

When the dining room and kitchen behind the last remaining door doesn't wield any new insights either, Neal heads towards the only area he hasn't been yet. As he already suspected from the sofa and a tube TV that could well be sold downstairs visible from the hallway, it functioned as a living room.

Now however it is just another relict of the past, even if like the bedroom a few things have been altered: On one wall is a broad bookshelf, but its former denizens are stacked next to it on the floor. Instead, it is filled with bound folders. Neal slips on a pair of gloves and driven by curiosity reaches for a random one. Inside he finds a bunch of loose papers, filled with printed letters and annotated in a curvy script. He reads through them, finding seemingly unrelated snippets and fragments that slowly start fitting together as Neal works through them: They all seem to center around the same person, are told from the same perspective. The contents of the folder however seem to be more than the escapades of an author, a suspicion which is confirmed when Neal comes to the last page which consists of a short, cut out newspaper article reporting on a John Doe found dead in an alley, another identifying the man as Nathaniel Adams and asking for the cooperation of the public in clearing up the mysterious events leading up to the man’s death.

With that information the fragments finally snap into place; they must be the thought of her victim the Cuckoo overheard and decided to write down for whatever warped reason, maybe as another kind of memorial? A question only the lady herself could answer.

Neal starts taking pictures of the hoard of evidence as he goes through it. He is tearing through the third file already, when his phone starts buzzing with yet another incoming call.

Reluctantly, Neal fishes it out of his pocket. This time it is Peter, not Moz. Still Neal contemplates letting this one, too, go to voice mail; he is in the middle of something here and doesn’t need the agent anywhere near. Then again, ignoring Peter will probably result in having the man dash over this very instance and put all of Neal’s actions in the spotlight. With an annoyed huff, Neal relays the call to his earpiece and finally answers.

“Hey, Peter,” he chimes in his best impersonation of someone not currently committing B&E and pockets the phone to have his hands free again. His voice echoes eerily through the deserted apartment and Neal fights down the instinct to whisper. “How’s your stake-out, missing me already?”

“Damn it Neal, what did I tell you about running off on your own?!”

“Wha-“ Neal stops himself and bites down any excuse he has. Peter sounds genuinely angry - just how much exactly does the agent know? And is this about Neal's current activities or something else altogether? With Peter that's always hard to tell.

Neal decides to play things close to his chest and goes for confused: "Running off? What do you mean? I'm not-"

The agent cuts him short. “Neal, stop. You’re not going after this Cuckoo on your own.”

Neal is taken of guard: How does Peter even know about his case? He is so surprised, he resorts to the first answer that comes to mind.

“Well, you can’t stop me,” he spits.

There's a sigh from the other end of the line and Neal has seen the expression going with that sound often enough he can imagine the furrowed brow and thinned lips like Peter is standing right in front of him.

"Dammit, Neal! If even half of what Haversham's told me is true, you're in way over your head. Stay put, don't engage and wait for me, backup is on the way." Neal curses Moz for his well-meaning betrayal. And Peter, for sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.

"Peter-"

"Not up for discussion. This is for your own safety."

Neal snarls in frustration. _So is this_ , he thinks but can't voice it. Without knowing Neal's secret, Peter could never understand how the supposedly non-violent CI is safer without having to watch out for a federal agent at his back.

"Neal." The warning in Peter's voice is clear - but Neal choses to ignore it.

"I don't need your help," he insists and to stress his point, severs the connection. It's rude, but Neal knows Peter is on his way already and nothing he could have said would have stopped the agent. This way Neal at least has a few more minutes to go through the evidence undisturbed. He checks the Cuckoo's tracker again – finding it still at her downtown address - and then expedites his search. His current priority is finding out what the lady knows about him from their encounter: He needs to prevent any possible notes on that from ever falling into the hands of the FBI. It'd be bad enough to lose his 'non-violent' status and indefinitely worse if they learned Neal moonlights as a vigilante, who is in lieu with Batman, of all people.

Neal skims through the good dozen of folders and while he finds mentions of people he had suspected to have been the Cuckoo's victims, among them her mother's ex-partner, he finds nothing on himself or Moz. Then again, the two of them are still alive, which is not something that can be said of the other poor chaps in her creepy library. It would make sense for the Cuckoo to only add the compilation of her victim's last thoughts to the shelf post mortem. Following that angle, Neal has the computer boot up. It sits in the corner by the window and fits into the old-fashioned style of the apartment, but could very well hold the Cuckoo's in-progress work if the printer next to it is any indication. Even if he is wrong on that account, it always pays to scoop through a personal computer.

The boot process takes less time than Neal expects it to, the retro casing and monitor apparently belying a more modern core, and not even a minute passes before the machine demands a password. Neal goes out on a limp and, inspired by the apartment’s whole décor, enters the date of the bank robbery: good news for him, bad news for Mrs. Steep's security. The screen changes, accompanied by a deafening welcome jingle that has Neal’s pulse speed up. He scrambles to mute the speakers and then listens into the apartment but it continues to lie silent, as does the hallway. When he is certain no one will come investigate the ruckus any time soon, Neal continues his investigation.

Convenience and/or laziness once again prove to be both a detective and con artist’s best friend as he finds the links to two frequently accessed folders on the desktop. The one named 'Mom' holds a plethora of images and video files each showing the late Laura Steep. The other one, ominously unnamed, contains two more folders: The first is titled 'Mozart Winters?' the second 'Neal Caffrey'. Neal accesses the information on himself with a click of the mouse, finding three text documents inside. One just seems to be a compilation of copy-pasted articles, links to websites and online archives. At the very top of the document is a picture the Cuckoo apparently pulled from a blog curating the world’s most handsome mugshots if the signature slapped onto the bottom right of the image is any indication – flattering. Neal snorts in amusement and skims the information she compiled on him. For a simple online search the results are impressive, but within the limits of public record and thankfully restricted to Caffrey only, with no mention of any of his aliases.

The other two documents are both titled with yesterday’s date, the more recent one last edited mere hours ago. Neal opens one of them - and finds himself face to face with his own thoughts. Reading those simple sentences, they fill Neal with the most peculiar feeling of déjà-vu: Those are _his_ thoughts. Hours ago, they flashed through his head within a fraction of seconds but reading them again, Neal can’t help feeling like they are still deeply engrained somewhere in his brain, so quintessential _him_ it feels like a violation to have them out in the open.

His first impulse is to delete the offending words, but Neal stops himself: That would accomplish nothing except tipping the Cuckoo off he is on to her, only for her to write them all over again. Maybe with less jarring accuracy than this first version but in turn she would only dog him and Moz more viciously.

Neal much prefers the current pace of his investigation, and decides to compromise on the privacy of his thoughts: He dives underneath the desk and pries the casing open, plucking a device of his own design from his belt and into the mainboard. It looks like an additional memory bank and is accessed as such, but has the advantage of its own internet connection and the ability to remotely boot the computer, granting Neal 24/7 remote access - and the ability to wipe the drive the very moment he feels like it.

The gadget comes with the added bonus that Neal will be able to show Moz what he found here; specifically the file that presumably holds what thoughts the Cuckoo managed to pry from his balding friend. While Neal is curious just what exactly the inside of the man's head looks like, it also is one hundred percent none of his business and a grave breach of trust. Neal will leave it to Mozzie's discretion which information seems relevant enough to their case to share.

With that done, Neal dives back into the records of his own thoughts. He is relieved to lean none of them explicitly express his relation to Batman and his erstwhile alter ego, even if some passages definitely allude to them. Whether the Cuckoo did or didn't make that the connection or really wrote down everything she heard still remains to be discovered. For now though, it helps dissipate Neal's worst concerns.

Having met one of the main goals of his investigation, Neal chances a look at the time: Depending on where Peter was when he called, the agent is due to arrive within the next few minutes. Content with what he found, Neal follows his gut feeling and starts wrapping his excursion up before Peter barges in and finds out just how dangerous the Cuckoo - and, by implication,  his CI - really is.

Neal closes the documents and lets the computer shut down, before enabling the speakers again. He rearranges everything to the state he found it in, putting the mouse at the same position it was before and the chair an inch from the desk. He knows it's the little things that can feel off, triggering atavistic instincts and causing a mark to be more wary, their behavior harder to predict.

He takes a step back towards the center of the room, to scan whether everything is back in its place and where to best place his surveillance devices. He decides on one between the leaves of the plastic orchid sitting atop the book stack by the couch and another one stuck to the lamp on the ceiling. Bringing them online Neal establishes connection and makes sure they grant him a view on the bookcase filled with last thoughts and the desk with the computer, while also capturing the rest of the room. Because all good things come in threes, Neal decides to add another one in the hallway to capture anyone entering the flat and which room they entered. He stretches onto his tiptoes to feel along the frame of the arch for a good spot - and freezes when he hears footsteps approaching. Echoing up the staircase, the sound carries well through the flat's thin walls. He strains his ears and the strides definitely get louder. Maybe it’s just another tenant, maybe Peter got here earlier than predicted; whoever is out there is getting closer. When he can hear the dangle of keys, followed by an electric beep of electronic security being disabled, Neal realizes he isn't that lucky. He jumps into motion, suppressing a curse. His watch should have vibrated in warning if the Cuckoo came within half a mile of his location! Alas, it didn't and Neal makes for the nearest point of exit in a hurry: The window in the living room is tilted vertically and the silt, a slab of solid concrete, looks stable enough to carry his weight. Neal doesn't waste any time in opening it and pushing his weight onto the silt. Behind him, he can hear the sharp click of the door being unlocked but doesn't allow his professional calm to waver. With whom this apartment belongs he might get more than a slap on the wrist if he is caught - which is all the more reason to not let his focus slip. With deft fingers, Neal grabs a thin, see-through string from his belt and wraps it around the window's handle. He turns it back into the vertical position and keeps the window in its place with the string. The move is a gambit and temporal remedy at best, depending on both the new arrival to the flat not seeing the string and that no one walking down below on the sidewalks chances a look into the alley and up to see him. Neal stalks along the ledge, to stay out of sight and hide from anyone inside the flat.

With all the evidence he already has gathered, he'd much rather make a run for it instead of waiting it out to slip back inside. With the light breeze blowing however, the moment he lets go of the thread the window will slam open, alerting to his presence. Should that happen - or should who is presumably the Cuckoo spot him in his mediocre hiding place, he can still escape then.

Neal's suit isn't exactly inauspicious but neither were his early Robin outfits, before the design changes and addition of a fancy stealth mode, and he still managed to blend in. The sun standing low in the sky works in his favor, too, blinding anyone looking up and turning his silhouette into little more than a shadow to the untrained eye. Preparing to wait things out, Neal squats down. His back against the wall takes some weight off his feet and allows him to relax his posture a bit.

The newly installed cameras pick up movement inside; as suspected it’s Steep Junior. She scans the interior of the flat with the intensity of someone suspecting an intruder. Neal didn't peg her for the paranoid type, not with how lax her security is, but maybe she skimmed someone's thoughts who had met him on his way here. When she doesn't find anything out of the ordinary - Neal thanks his lucky stars he put everything back when he did - she plops down onto the sofa, throwing her legs up. The Cuckoo gets her laptop out of the handbag she is carrying and a few moments later, music is floating out to Neal. The sound carries well and once the song is over Neal can hear every word on the radio. At least he won't get bored this way.

He has half an eye on what is going on inside and down at street level, which is how he spots the familiar dark Taurus pulling up. He knew his friend was coming but for stupid reasons he had hoped Peter might change his mind against all odds or at least get stuck in traffic. Neal groans and curses the very properties he usually appreciates within his friend: Intelligence and tenacity are great - as long as they are working in one's favor.

Down below, Peter doesn't even waste any time in finding a parking spot. The agent just throws his car's warning lights on, puts an FBI identifier behind the windshield and then gets onto the sidewalk, phone in hand. Sure enough Neal's phone and in extension his watch both vibrate a moment later with an incoming call. He doesn't need to check his caller ID to know it's his handler on the other end of the line, demanding answers.

"This really isn't a good time," Neal hisses instead of a greeting. His communicator picks up sound well, allowing him to quietly speak to Peter without being heard by the lady inside.

He watches the agent pick up his pace and promptly disappear into crevice of the building's entrance.

“Tell me where you are.”

“We’re both safer if you stay away.”

“I said: Tell me!,” Peter growls, channeling the special agent.

After years under the Bat Neal knows how to obey an order – and how to defy one. He easily ignores Peters command voice: “No, you listen to me: I don't know how much you know about what is going on, but I really need you to sit this one out. I'm safe - and chances I'll stay that way are infinitesimal better if you keep your distance."

Through the line, Neal hears Peter being buzzed into the building and then taking the stairs in storm.

"Peter!" Neal resorts to his own command voice and Peter is so surprised the echo of steps falters for a moment. "I need you to stop before you step into the radius of a psychic hostile meta, if you haven't already."

"A what?!" Judging by the tone, Peter heard him alright but needs to stomach the information first. When he speaks again, his voice is hard, set in a way Neal recognizes as dread determination. "No wonder Haversham was spooked. He called me, more erratic than usual, rambling on about a file you had and things being much worse than he thought."

Neal growls in frustration. "Benighted idiot! Not you - Moz. Well, you too, since you are here now."

"I'm not letting you go through this alone!," Peter insists. "If anything, I ought to be the one in there. I at least have a gun." The echo of hurried steps resumes.

Neal sighs. "I take it back. You're even worse than Mozzie."

"Like you're one to talk, Caffrey. Jones and the cavalry are less than five minutes out and I'm not leaving you alone a moment longer. You hold tight, I'll come and get you." With that statement comes a rustling sound and the telltale click of a safety flipping off. Neal can only surmise Peter pocketed the phone and readied his gun, while still keeping the line open.

The next thing he hears is a sharp rap at the door and a belted "Open up, FBI!" clearly audible even over the currently playing song.

The Cuckoo is so surprised she jumps in her seat. Apparently her powers didn't warn her; either because she was so focused on her typing she tuned everything else out or she needs to focus for her ability to work in the first place. Now however, she cocks her head as if she is listening for something and then puts her laptop down, shutting it and thus silencing the music that filled the flat. She once again scans the room, with more intent this time and an irritated, cruel smile defacing her features.

"You're here, Caffrey, aren't you? So it really was you down in Nana's shop."

Peter bangs on the door again, even more forceful than the first time. The Cuckoo still doesn't move a muscle to oblige - nor does she attempt to barricade the entrance or escape. Instead she closes her eyes, brows furrowing in deep concentration. Neal can only assume she is trying to use her abilities to locate his mind - in vain, thanks to Mozzie's addition to his headwear.

The Cuckoo snarls in anger. "Well, hide all you like, little thief. I'll deal with your friend first and then you'll suffer for breaking into this one of all places."

She rises to her feet and starts towards the door, no doubt to make due on her threat and not to offer the nice agent a coffee and ask him inside. Broken wrist and bruised ribs be damned - Neal straps his cast tighter and flings into action before she takes more than three steps. He lets go of the string keeping the window in its place and closes the distance before it hits the wall with a bang. The Cuckoo whirls around on her heels in instinct, meeting his readily swung fist head on. Her glasses go flying across the room and she recoils hard, almost going down.

Neal grins viciously, unable to resist a taunt. "I swear, officer, I ain’t done nothing. She just ran into my fist. - Repeatedly."

While she is still staggering backwards, Neal follows up with a second strike and ignores Peter’s frantic voice in his ear, calling his CI’S name and demanding to know what is going on inside the flat.

The Cuckoo regains her balance, baring bloodied teeth. “Cute,” she snarls and retaliates with a punch of her own. Neal fights against the sudden desire to stay still and let the attack connect –a nuance of the meta’s power the shielding device apparently can’t quite block out. Where less disciplined minds would fail, Neal pushes through, powered by determination and adrenaline: He grabs the fist flung his way, turns on his heels and bows low, using her immense force in his own favor. She loses her balance and gets flung over his shoulder, curtesy of physics and Japanese martial arts. Neal’s ribs protest the motion with a sting of pain, but that’s nothing compared to what’s in store for his enemy: With a groan, the Cuckoo crashes into the coffee table. Wood and something else shatter under the force of impact. Shards of glass spray the carpet and Neal can only assume they are the remnants of one of the numerous pictures littering the place.

For a moment, the Cuckoo lies motionless, too stunned to get back up and Neal senses his chance: He lunges forward and reaches for the additional, large compartment added to his belt, the one holding the inhibitor collar. As soon as that is snapped around her neck, booking the Cuckoo will be child’s play.

Before he gets that far however, his opponent snaps back into action with a vicious snarl. A knee slams up, impossible to evade from so up close and aimed right where it hurts most. Even with the protective cup and armored suit taking the brunt of it, Neal cries out in pain. The force of the kick and damage to the sensitive flesh fell him right off his feet, legs buckling out from under him. He curls up on instinct and when he can finally breathe again finds himself underneath his opponent, the collar flung from his grasp and laying out of reach in the hallway.

Within moments, the whole situation took a sharp turn for the worse: Hostile weight on his chest, viselike hands keeping him down – not unlike their last encounter. The parallels however are apparently lost to the Cuckoo: Or maybe she just _completely_ lost it, and is finally living up to her moniker.

“ _What did you do?!_ ”, she roars. Her face is a mask of unbridled agony and rage and not exactly a hallmark of sanity.

For once, Neal wisely keeps his gob shut – mostly because the nausea bubbling in his stomach won’t subside, partly because antagonizing the Cuckoo further could turn ugly very, very fast. Neal isn’t quite ready to kick the bucket just yet: He still has a date to go on, or Barb will finish what the Cuckoo started. Also, there is Peter, still outside the door. The agent gave up calling his name and has ordered for a battering ram to be brought, if the chatter is anything to go by. Neal has to finish this, before his friend comes rushing in and gets hurt.

Without the luxury to recover at his own pace, Neal grits his teeth and starts looking for a weapon to help him fight back and turn the tide. He can’t get to the escrima strapped to his leg, but the splintered remains of the table are temptingly just within arm’s reach.

Neal subtly inches his hand towards the splintered remains of the table’s leg

The Cuckoo thankfully hasn’t noticed his efforts yet, too busy foaming above him. “You’re ruining _everything_! This is my mother’s home. You shouldn’t be here in the first place- You’re destroying it and sullying her memory!”

Neal lets her rave on and work that villainous urge to monologue out of her system, until his hand finally meets the table leg. He wraps his fingers around the wood, readies himself – and then the right moment comes, in the form of decisive bangs on the door. Seems that battering ram and the backup Peter ordered finally arrived. Neal uses his opponent’s distraction and reacquaints the makeshift weapon with her skull. The table leg connects with the most satisfying thud, sadly almost tuned out by his opponent’s pained roar. She jerks back, instinctively motioning to protect her face. There’s blood drizzling from her forehead and smeared over her brow, and the pressure of the knee on his stomach subsides. The small respite isn’t enough to wriggle free though. Neal swings his weapon one more time to gain more leeway, but the piece of wood is knocked out of his hand and lithe fingers wrap around his neck, threatening to crush his windpipe.

 “You pathetic excuse of a criminal!”

Neal struggles in indignant protest Had he the room to breathe, he would object. He may not be at the top of his game right now, but he is an excellent criminal and an even better vigilante! And also not going down like this.

Neal fights against his instincts and stops himself from futilely scratching at the hand holding his throat. Instead he brings his leg up high, heel against her sternum and reaches for his escrima. His finger finds the button that lets electricity arc around the baton’s tip. The moment he kicks out, he brings the weapon up. Sparks connect and with the current flowing through her into the floor, the Cuckoo jerks. Her grasp slackens as her neurons misfire, and Neal slips out with a triumphant grin.

“ _Pathetic_ , huh?”  His voice is hoarse, but for Neal that isn’t enough of a reason not to gloat. “Just watch me.”

 

He only gets a grunt in response and, perfectly on cue, the loud slam of the door hitting the wall as it gives under the agents’ assault.

“FBI, freeze!”, Peter, leading the incursion, calls out.

The CI doesn’t bother to turn around, not with his handler at his back. He keeps a watchful eye on the Cuckoo instead, listening to the footsteps storming the apartment, accompanied by the sound of at least three guns being readied government agency – style.

“End of the line,” Neal smirks, keeping his hands where the possibly trigger-happy agents can see them - can’t have them shoot the wrong criminal by accident - while pressing the escrima against his forearm so it isn't visible from behind.

The Cuckoo, surprisingly, remains unfazed in the face of defeat. There’s a lazy smile dancing around her lips, deceptively docile, that has Neal’s skin crawl with suspicion. “I was just about to say the same. Your _friends_ might agree with me. Feds these days - really aren’t what they used to be.”

With dread coiling in his stomach, Neal turns around while keeping half an eye on his opponent. As he already guessed, Peter is standing in the door with Jones at his shoulder. The other two agents Neal isn’t as familiar with, but still recognizes: The female is Fakhri, who prefers her coffee atrociously sweet, has two baby girl twins she loves talking about and transferred from Public Corruption half a year ago. The other agent Neal never really talked to, the man being too much a stickler for rules to dare get close to a convicted felon, but a good agent none the less. They all have their guns trained on where their pet criminal and the Cuckoo stand, no surprise there, and are waiting for how the situation will play out and further orders. Orders, which should have come by now or at least a hint at how Peter wants to play this. Neal sends his friend a carefully schooled smile, silently communicating his confusion.

“Peter?” There isn’t so much as a twitch in his friend’s face as response and Neal masks his nerves by going for a flippant tone: “I’m okay, by the way, thanks for asking.”

The extended silence doesn’t bode well, and when Neal decides to take the risk and turn his back to the Cuckoo in favor of a real look and not only a glaze out of the corner of his eye he realizes why.

Peter’s pupils are blown wide to the point his eyes almost appear black and the grip on his gun not as determined as Neal knows it should be. Also, that gun is definitely trained on him – not the Cuckoo.

“ _Fuck_ _,_ ” Neal groans through gritted teeth. Not only did he just win the jackpot where unwelcome surprises are concerned – no, he managed to pull the agents into his mess, too. Now Peter and Jones are at her complete mercy and it’s completely his fault and therefore even more his responsibility to get them out of this in one piece.

Suddenly this feels much more like a hostage situation than a victory and Neal has no idea how to defuse the situation and keep it from blowing up into their face.

Slowly, he raises his hands, otherwise not moving a muscle. His own life in the balance is a risk that long lost its threat to Neal: One doesn't do what he does both in and out of costume while fearing death or injury. On the contrary, by now he needs the danger as much as he needs air. This tightrope act turned into an addiction he cannot help but feed.

The moment he realized the Cuckoo had gotten her mental hooks into the agents however, this stopped being about him. It is no longer his life alone in the balance, but his fellow humans' and that's a currency Neal can't and won't trade in. Ever.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he starts carefully, aware of how lame he sounds. Still, talking is better than doing nothing. Neal can talk. He basically invented the _bantering side-kick_ shtick, so surely he can do better. He has to.

The Cuckoo behind him snorts harshly, barely amused by his poor attempt. Still, it’s a reaction at least, something he can work with. Him talking the down the meta is unlikely, not with how zealously deluded she is. However, Neal can still go for a distraction, attempt to buy time until either he comes up with something actually deserving of the term _plan_ or the Cuckoo’s powers exhaust enough for the agents to shake free of her control.

Keeping his hands where she can see them, he turns around ever so slowly until he faces her again.   

“You can let them go,” Neal implores her.

“Nah, I don’t think so." There’s an ugly sneer flitting across her face. "You are kin to the very scum that killed my mother, part of the disease eating away at our society, cancer that needs to be razed away. I will cut you out and burn you and everything you tainted from the face of the earth.”

Okay – really not the direction Neal wanted to take this in, but he knows better than to provoke her further by outright challenging her opinion or pointing out how warped her logic is.

“You are right,” he instead agrees when she is pausing for breath. The Cuckoo is so surprised by his admission she cuts her rant short. She eyes him up, suspecting a trick or maybe for him to mock her. Neal puts on one of his most open and serious expression, the emotion genuine and based in lonely nights where he faced those thoughts before. “I am all those things: A liar, a thief, a forger – I break the law, I am a criminal. I deserve to face the consequences.” Neal pauses in his admission, trying to decide in which direction to take this. Let the punishment fit the crime? Or an appeal to trust into the people whose job it is to bring justice? No, both have the potential to blow up in his face, rather literally.

"The bill always comes due. And that’s what you do, right? You punish,” Neal pointedly avoids the k-word, “those who wrong others. Make sure everyone gets exactly what they deserve. And I may have got what's coming for me, but _they_ don't. Those are good agents, good people. They did nothing wrong. This is between you and me, so let them go. Please.”

Hesitation flits across her face before it hardens again.

"That may have been true before. Now they are simply accessories to your crimes."

Neal grits his teeth in a flare of anger, biting down on the emotion. He'd tell her what he thinks of her and her warped worldview - but one wrong move and the Cuckoo could have him and the agents killed with one errant mental suggestion. He grabs his escrima tighter, until his knuckles whiten and the grip hurts, yet his irritation still bleeds into his next retort.

"So, what? Is the clerk who hands over the cash in a bank robbery an accessory as well? Would you hold her prisoner, hostage in her own body and threaten her life, too?" Neal is painfully aware how thin a line he is walking, fearing for her to lash out.  He tries to ignore the four guns trained at his center and the volatile potential behind them. At least his torso is protected by the bullet-proof suit, thank the universe for small mercies. If push comes to shove, he can take one for the team, even if his already bruised ribs really won’t like it. His armor will hold and if it doesn't? Better him than them.

"That's ..." Mary Steep inhales sharply, unable to banish the tremor from her voice.

"What, that's different? Because they are only doing their job? Because there are people waiting for them at home?"

"You-!" For a moment Neal fears the worst; that he crossed the line but then he sees the tears prickling at the Cuckoo's eyes. He decides to not stretch his luck any further:

Provoking and forcing her to confront her issues any more is folly. He said what he had to and letting that tangent slip for her to ponder at her own pace will do more than him pushing the issue. To back her into a corner like that would only make the Cuckoo more dangerous and probably result in her lashing out in spite instead of seeing reason.

Neal lets the silence stretch, before imploring her again, keeping his voice and gaze low:

"It's me you want. Let them go."

"Because they are only doing their jobs?"

Neal swallows. There's an alarmingly sudden, dangerous calm to her expression and he fears she will twist his argument, but can't see how just yet.

"That they are," he cautiously agrees.

"In that case I should have them do just that - their job, by taking care of the lawless thug in their ranks."

Neal freezes, preparing himself for the impact against his back. For a heartbeat, he contemplates diving to the floor, but he did that once, _not_ jump into the line of fire and spent an eternity living with the guilt of letting a life slip away and compromising his morals.

The Cuckoo chuckles cruelly. "Oh, you thought I meant you, sweetie? Sorry, the _other_ thug in their ranks." She prompts him to turn around with a sharp gesture and Neal, unable to do much else, obliges.

"Valiant Agent Burke here didn't come to arrest you for your crimes - no, he came to _help_ you." She raises her voice the slightest bit, no longer addressing him. "So why don’t you go ahead and do your job? Shoot him."

While Neal's head is still trying to wrap itself around this newest turn of events, his legs are already moving before the Cuckoo even gets to the end of her sentence. He all but flies across the four feet dividing him from his friend, crashing into the man and throwing him off his feet the moment the first shot rings in his ears. The bullet eats through the space Peter occupied but a heartbeat ago, close enough to Neal's head his curls jostle in its wake. Below him, Peter gasps, startled out of his trance.

"Neal?"

Neal doesn't have time to answer or explain what is going on, as much as he'd like to.  He ducks his head in, and the next shot screams in his ear - or maybe that's his own voice, in the surreal moment before the pain from the hit in his lower back consciously registers. Almost simultaneous, there's a second bullet, hitting his thorax point blank and with the force of a rampant freight train. Even with the protective suit and padding, the pressure is enough to knock the air straight out of him and his cracked ribs let him know what exactly they think of the rough treatment. He hears someone groan like from far away - himself, he realizes belatedly, dazed by the pain.

"Neal!" That's Peter's voice, slowly filtering in and pulling him back into the present. Or maybe it’s the agent's movement as he tries to get up from where he is burrowed under Neal's body while frantically prodding at the bruised areas where the bullets hit.

“’M fine,” Neal insists just to make it stop, slapping at the obtrusive limbs. He cracks open an eye he wasn't aware he had closed and, when he finds there are no longer any weapons pointed at them, rolls of off his confused but thankfully unharmed friend.

The other agents apparently managed to shake free from the mind control, either because of the noise and recoil of their hand weapons discharging or of the moral implications. Neal doesn't quite care which it was, as long as they are no longer puppets to the Cuckoo.

The Cuckoo...! Lightheaded with pain and relief, Neal had taken no pause at being unable to find the woman when he did his quick scan of the room. It's unlike her to just give up and walk away, though, not when she held the absolute advantage mere moments ago.

Neal tenses and hoists himself up into a sitting position, breathing through gritted teeth, so he might have a look around. Clinton, Fakhri and - ah-  Agent Davis each have taken position around where Neal and Peter went down, supervising the hallway, entrance and adjacent rooms. They have their weapons drawn, still pointed to the ground but ready to aim at whoever might pop out at them. Jones has one hand on the radio, sending out a call for backup and an ambulance. During his military career the man probably encountered hostile metas before and despite - or maybe; because of that he is oozing nerves more than confusion. They all are understandably anxious - Neal would be too, if he hadn't dealt with this sort of shit for half his life. Heck, he still is, considering not only his life is on the line and there still is no sight of the Cuckoo...

Which, Neal belatedly realizes, is one of her powers. His hands fly towards his head, but find only damp strands. The modified fedora he wore is gone. No doubt lost sometime between jumping across the room and being shot at. Neal takes a shaky breath and concentrates, finding a calm pattern and tuning everything out for a moment to hastily re-erect the barrier he already relied on during their last encounter. He still can't see her, but at least in this state he is no longer broadcasting his secrets and plans to the meta.

Speaking of plans: Neal has his eyes on the inhibitor collar which came to lie among the shoes at the entrance. It’s just out of reach but close enough he could get up and just grab it within seconds. The hard part will be locating the Cuckoo and keep her busy long enough to place the collar around her neck. When he had been able to see her that last part had proved challenging enough already. With that advantage gone, Neal now has to improvise and use all the tools at his disposal: While they are clearly not able to face the Cuckoo on their own, he still is surrounded by trained and armed suits. That has to count for something.

Neal addresses his handler, as the highest ranking agent in the room: "Peter, I know this may sound-", he foregoes the obvious pun in favor of conveying the urgency of the matter, "weird, but I need you to listen to me. I don't know how much you remember, but what just happened was mind control, curtesy of our not-so-friendly neighborhood meta. Also, she can make herself invisible. We can still sniff her out, though - literally. She is only able to impair our sight meaning we can still smell or hear her. Also, look out for movement in the air where there shouldn't be any -"

"What the?!" Jones' cry interrupts him midsentence. Alarmed, Neal whips around, only to witness the agents get thrown against the structure behind. The wall reverberates with the impact, but holds up. Only plaster rains down onto the curled up figure, where the man fell to his knees, gasping for labored breaths.

Neal pushes himself onto his feet, reigning in his buckling legs through sheer force of will. He needs to check Jones is okay, needs to -

“ _Stand. Down._ ” The sudden command washes over his thoughts with overwhelming intensity, so strong Neal’s limbs give out right underneath him and he sags back down onto the floor. Distracted by his injuries, his worry for both Peter and Jones, Neal is caught completely off guard. Peter, Fakhri and Davis freeze where they stand and let their weapons slip from their grip without any heed to their training or the safeties being off. The gun clattering to the floor just next to him startles Neal out of his trance enough he realizes what is going on but not enough to be able to move, try as he may.

He hears the shuffle of feet and manages to turn his head towards the noise.

"You really don't know how to give up, do you?", the Cuckoo mocks his weak efforts in cruel amusement. Her voice indicates she is coming closer and Neal braces for an attack, anything, as much as his immobile body allows. He grits his teeth, trying to get back up but his limbs just won't budge.

"Real shame, too. If not for your continued insistence to defy me, this would be over already. I'd even have let the other three go, too. Now, however, they know too much. And there's only one remedy to that..." Neal really doesn't like the ominous tone to that. He likes it even less when her steps come to a halt directly before Peter. "Let's start with your friend here, huh?"

"No!" Neal is surprised the sound even makes it out of his mouth.

The cry startles Peter; enough to wake him up but any reactions already comes too late.

Neal can see where the Cuckoo's hands close around the tender flesh of his friend's throat, where invisible fingers leave their mark. His body defies every command, so all Neal can only watch helplessly as Peter gasps for breath and claws at the choking hold, as he is lifted off the floor and hoisted high against the wall, feet dangling an inch above the ground, the indentations her fingers are leaving paling and growing. And yet, she is but toying with her prey, showing off - if she merely wanted to kill them, she could have done so already. No, the sadistic bitch apparently enjoys the suffering, the terror. Fueled by anger and desperation, Neal fights to regain the control over his muscles. His fingers twitch in response. Just a moment now!

Neal decides to give her the show she wants, to buy more time. If he is playing into her expectations that might just give him a minute more she delays killing Peter in favor in gloating some more.

"Let him go!", he threatens and the fearful tremor in his voice comes out stronger, more genuine than he planned.

The Cuckoo laughs. "Or else? What will you do, little, powerless human - Run your pathetic gob some more? Have me break every last one of your bones before I end you and them after anyway? Boo-hoo," her disembodied voice mocks eerily.

Anger roars in Neal's blood. Usually he is the one to do the mocking and hasn't taken serious offense to any of that since he upgraded from short pants to long armored legs – and maybe during that short sting in his very first high-collared and in hindsight ill-fashioned Nightwing design.  To taunt him so thoroughly however, enjoy his plight _and_ hold his friend's life in her hands...

Neal balls his fists in impotent fury - and notices he can move again. Maybe the anger burned away the last of the Cuckoo's control over his body, and finally his limbs obey none but himself.

He takes a deep breath to compose himself and reign in his temper. He has one chance and he doesn’t have the luxury of getting carried away by his emotions – or for his hand to waver in the slightest. The Cuckoo may be invisible, but Neal can pinpoint her location by the way her voice echoes across the hallway. Her head is facing his way and in lieu with the imprints on Peter’s throat tell Neal exactly where which part of his opponent is, thanks to getting a good, unobstructed look at her earlier. He summons the Cuckoo’s image before his mental eye.

"Or else,” Neal echoes her taunt, “I’m going to bring you down.”

He grabs Peter's gun with his uninjured hand and pulls the trigger.

               

The shot rings through the hallway, bullet embedding itself in the invisible target. The Cuckoo and Peter by proxy jerk with the impact and they both go down: Peter slowly and gasping for air, sliding down the wall until his legs steady enough to carry his weight. The Cuckoo with a sudden thud, her image becoming visible as the control over her powers fades.

Neal grins viciously, securing the weapon. "And people say _I_ talk too much."

“People are right. Shut up, Caffrey,” Jones groans groggily if good-naturedly, casually ruining the effect of Neal’s witty one-liner as he dusts plaster of his clothes and holsters his own gun.

Neal too pushes onto his feet, grabs the inhibitor collar and half stumbles, half jogs to where the Cuckoo has fallen. Blood is trickling from the wound in her shoulder, enough that she will need medical attention in the next few minutes but no major artery nicked - good thing Jones had already called for an ambulance earlier. She is alive and breathing, if drifting into unconsciousness and Neal checks her pulse before he slaps the collar into place around her neck. It powers up and confirms its activation with a click the light on its side turns green.

Since she doesn't require his immediate attention, Neal leaves the Cuckoo to suffer for a while longer and checks on his friend instead.

Peter is already recovering, if still massaging his sore throat. His expression is a complicated mess of emotions even Neal can't decipher - and usually Neal is good at that, good enough to read someone as emotionally constipated as Bruce by the set of his jaw alone.

"You alright?, Neal carefully asks.

Peter sends him an exasperated glare, which clearly translates to _what does it look like?_ but then nods.

"Cou-," he coughs and grimaces, "could be worse."

Neal winces sympathetically. He knows how painful talking after an injury to the larynx is. Heck, now that the adrenaline is fading, _painful_ is basically all he knows.

"I'm glad it isn't," he confides quietly and slides down the wall next to his friend. It's his fault in the first place Peter got mixed up in this.

For a moment, they both sit in silence; cataloguing their own thoughts and watch Fakhri and Davis secure the Cuckoo, bandage her wound to contain the bleeding and then take stock of the apartment.

Peter talks first, or at least tries to. Neal waits for the coughing to subside and is rewarded with a grimace that in other circumstances would be a wry smile.

"I thought you didn't like guns." 

"I don't." Neal shrugs. "Doesn't mean I don't know how to use them."

"Good thing you do, that was one hell of a shot. Especially given the circumstances. "

"Mostly luck," Neal lies, but beams at the compliment.

"And I take it you survived getting shot at by sheer luck, too?"

Neal smiles sheepishly and opens his suit's jacket to show the padding underneath.

Peter eyes the outfit as pointedly as he does the inhibitor collar, and then throws that same look towards the open bathroom door. Following the man's gaze, Neal finds his missing escrima there. "Do I even want to know where you got your toys?"

"Do you want to keep claiming plausible deniability?"

Peter groans and rubs his forehead. "Dammit Neal, haven’t you ever heard of due process?"

Neal grins lopsided. "Of course I have - you're going on about it all the time. It’s just I don't find the concept too endearing."

Peter sighs and burrows his head in his hands - but not before Neal can see the smile his law-abiding friend is forbidden to sport. Maybe it’s just the last remnants of adrenaline, because Neal doubts Peter could ever approve of his methods, but the sight alone lets something warm blossom in his chest.

 

The reinforcement Jones ordered arrives, consisting of a squadron of police officers. Peter pushes himself back on his feet, squares his shoulders and turns his full FBI authority on. Neal rises, too, but unlike his friend is more than content staying in the background. Peter can order the officers around while they secure the flat and evidence and is also perfectly capable of handling tedious interagency squabbles completely on his own. That's a part of wearing the dress blues among Blüdhaven's Finest Neal definitely doesn't miss and gladly leaves to the agent.

With literal stacks of evidence waiting to be catalogued, both agents and officers are too busy to pay any attention to Neal. Still, he checks no one is watching him before ducking into the bathroom. He can't leave any clues pointing to his extracurricular activities just lying around, so he grabs his escrima and straps it back to his calve. There's also the matter of the files still on the Cuckoo's computer. While not mentioning his relationship to the vigilantes of Gotham, the records of his thoughts paint a pretty damning and decidedly illegal picture of his actions and must not fall into the hands of the FBI. Neal activates his watch's interface and remotely wipes anything relating to Moz and himself from the hard drive. The gadget he used to pull the data is still active and while Neal could have it self-destruct, he'll try to get it back first. It's one of Lucius' prototypes and having them built cost Bruce a hefty sum, so Neal'd rather not see the little bugger destroyed. With the cops swarming the place, he doubts he'd get away with just marching in and taking it now, but he'll pay either this place or the evidence lockup of the NYPD a visit later in the evening, depending on whether they’ll sack the whole computer or only take the hard drive.

Right now however there is nothing Neal can do; Peter is capable of handling this on his own and no one expects the FBI's pet criminal to help anyway, so Neal sets to creep out of the flat and downstairs to catch some air. - Or at least, that is his plan before a hand at the back of his collar stops him.

Neal forces himself to relax and not throw whoever grabbed him over his shoulder against the nearest wall.

"Where do you think you're going, Caffrey?" That's Peter's voice. Of course it is, because who else has the uncanny ability to always casually steamroll his plans?

Neal shrugs the hand at his back off and turns around, innocent smile in place.

"Out?"

Peter’s expression remains unimpressed. 

"Grabbing a smoke?"

"You don't smoke. Try again." His friend's face darkens and, okay, maybe that quip was a bad call. Peter is obviously pissed at him, now that the danger is over. And the man has any right to be, Neal concedes, with the mess he dragged him in. Oh, and lying to him, too.

Neal hangs his head but then pulls himself together, going for a more subdued smile.

"Sorry. I get antsy with so many badges in the room. I'm just going to wait downstairs, if that's okay."

"I'd rather have you where I can see you. You've caused enough trouble for one day."

"I'd stay by your car? One glance out the window and you _can_ see me."

Peter stares at him and the slowly nods. "You don't and I'll book you. You owe me an explanation and I hope for your sake you won't be stupid enough to run."

"Not like you wouldn't find me anyway - but it never even crossed my mind," Neal promises. "See you downstairs?"

"You better."

Peter's glare manages what Bruce's infamous one hasn't in a long time - it makes Neal shrink and look away first.

"Well, thanks." He ducks out the door and it creaks on bend hinges as it swings closed behind him.

 

Neal makes his way down the stairs, stepping aside to let the ambulance crew pass and then slips beneath the yellow tape and past the officer guarding the entrance to the apartment building. Outside on the pavement, people have stopped and are staring in curiosity. Neal doubts they have any idea of the show that went on inside, but the flashing lights of the ambulance and the parking permit in Peter's Taurus are a sure sign of drama even to the uninitiated. Neal blends into the crowd and slips into the shop next door first. He promised to wait by the car, but without his hat - which Neal belatedly realizes is still somewhere in the flat - Peter will have a hard time identifying him from up there. Also, there is still the print that stoked his curiosity earlier. The shop to his surprise is still open, undeterred by the shots fired next door.

He blends into the crows, easily mixing among the bystanders with their distracted gawking and hazardously accessible pockets. Neal recognizes the temptation as what it is and decidedly keeps his hands to himself, as he pushes towards the shop's door. The bell once again announces his entry and the owner stirs in her chair, stifling a yawn and rearranging her glasses.

"Welcome back, Mr. Halden," she smiles and gets up stiffly, like older people do when they sat longer in one place than they meant to.

Neal nods in kind. "Please, no need to hurry on my account."

She laughs. "I can well do my sodden job, thank you." She shuffles behind the counter and reaches for the print she stored there, removing the post-it she had left on top and discarding it to the bin.

Neal notices and almost flinches: Mrs. Bukowski had spoken of an assistant to take over for her later and the Cuckoo had mentioned the old woman with intimate fondness, referring to her as 'Nana'. Obviously the two had had some sort of arrangement, probably dating back a decade at least, maybe even back to the days of the late Laura Steep. From what Neal can judge the shop keeper is a decent woman. Neal feels guilty for ruining that, taking that relationship from the older lady. She didn't deserve to have her young protégé ripped away from her, even if Ms. Steep Junior definitely deserved a place behinds bars. It just goes to show that in the end, everyone is only human - even those whose genes say otherwise.

Neal subtly shakes his head and shoos away the thought. He decides it is kinder, if Mrs. Bukowski doesn't learn just yet what has transpired upstairs and what her tenant had done.

With that in mind, he restricts himself to distant politeness and waits silently, as the shop owner wraps his purchase into layers of old newspaper and knots the package together with some string. Neal reaches for the cash he keeps in one of his belt's compartments and passes it over the counter in exchange, before leaving the small shop with his prize.

 

Then, due to his word if a little late, Neal moves to wait by Peter's car. As he leans back against the man's beloved vehicle he is careful his suit jacket covers the back of his belt - Peter is justifiably angry already, Neal doesn't need to add a scratched paint job to the list of his transgressions - and listens to the crackle in his ear. The call from earlier is still connected, allowing Neal to listen in on what is going on upstairs if he concentrates and uses his imagination a bit. Muffled as the sounds are it is probable Peter still has his phone in his pocket. Despite that, Neal can make out the gist of the conversation: Apparently, the medics are preparing the Cuckoo for transport to the hospital while one of the cops is calling in the update and arranging for constant surveillance to await their prisoner on site.

It sounds like things might take a while yet on Peter's side and in consideration to his friend's bill, Neal ends the call. His phone's display clears up briefly - and the gets flooded the by calls and messages he missed in the meantime.

Mozzie tried to reach him multiple times during the last thirty minutes. Moz left, as is his policy, no voicemail so Neal doesn't even bother with the calls and skips straight to the messages. There's a guilty absolution for siccing the Suit on him, almost all the others inquire into his wellbeing, conveying various tones of urgency and worry. One sticks out of the pattern, reading: _Found something. You'll definitely want to see this._

That one stokes Neal's curiosity, not that he needs the incentive to call back his friend. He discreetly looks out for any officers in hearing range and dials the number Moz last used to try and contact him.

Moz picks up on the second ring.

"Neal!" Knowing Moz as closely as he does, Neal can hear the trepidation and hidden accusations in is friend’s terse voice. 

"Hey, Moz. Sorry it took a while. But I've got good news: The Cuckoo won't bother us in the foreseeable future; she's got a long vacation scheduled, nice view if you ignore the bars," he hurriedly tries to disperse all of Mozzie’s worries.

There's silence for a moment and then a hearty sigh of relief.

"You and the Suit alright?"

"Yeah, yeah we are. A little worse for wear but, you know, you should see the other guy." Neal grins. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'm just peachy." Mozzie sounds prickly and definitely not _peachy_.

"Moz-" Neal’s confused query gets cut short.

"As one feels, after one only found a whole government style folder filled to the brim with things their supposed friend didn't deem necessary to mention."

Neal winces but knows he isn't going to apologize for withholding that information from Moz – not if he doesn’t mean it. To say he is sorry would be a lie, especially considering he will gladly, and hopefully with more success, do it again. Neal trusts the man, but more than anything else he want to keep his friend safe and as far away from any cape business as possible. So while he regrets not having shared the intel with his friend, regrets more yet he _must_ not share is, that isn't what Neal apologizes for. "I’m sorry - for not hiding it better."

There's a bitter laugh on the other side of the line. Bitter, but not angry or disappointed. Moz is a conman at heart and as such knows better than anyone else that secrets are the currency of their trade, misdirection their tool. To fool your enemies, first fool your friends and a con with no secrets left is a dead one.

"You're an idiot, mon frère.” Neal can hear a rustle, as Moz supposedly shakes his head. “If you hide anything under your mattress again, don't straighten out the sheets over that spot completely but leave a few authentic ruffles in." The man's voice sounds more amiable already even if Neal knows he hasn’t been completely forgiven. It’s but a small chunk in their friendship they will get over in time and it survived worse already, it will mend again.

"Well, pot - kettle.” Neal jokes with a lightness that belies his effort. “In my defense: I was in a hurry and who even visits someone else's home and starts rifling through things?"

"Every sensible person," Moz scoffs.

“Of course, wise mentor, forgive me,” Neal concedes. Moz does have a point, but not enough Neal bothers to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “While you’re at it, why don’t you enlighten me further and tell me what that cryptic something you claimed to have found is.”

“Claimed? And for that alone, I should withhold the information.” The ‘ _as you did_ ’ remains unsaid. “But I’m not one for petty grudges...”

“And thank God for that.”

Moz doesn’t dignify his interruption with a reply. “So, after I went through that file you didn't tell me about and could very well have just left lying on the table-“

Neal sighs and mumbles: “Gee, message received, alright?”

“I did some research of my own based on your notes.”

“Was that before or after you ratted me out to Peter?”

An awkward pause follows his remark and Neal curses himself. What was supposed be another playful interjection had come out much more vehemently than he ever intended.

Moz clears his throat. “A calculated if well-meaning betrayal,” he admits ruefully. “I am a strategist foremost, not a fighter and when I read in that file the extend of the Cuckoo’s abilities you had unearthed… I was worried your stupid insistence on not arming yourself properly would finally get you killed and it would be my fault alone for landing us her attention. I called the first person that came to mind, who was able to locate you quickly, as well as handle himself in a skirmish and who I could also trust to have your best interests at heart.”

Neal has to admit Mozzie’s logic is sound. Disregarding Nightwing and Dick Grayson’s acquaintances his friend cannot know about, Peter is not only on top of the list of people meeting these requirements: He basically _is_ that list.

“I appreciate you looking out for me, Moz, I really do - but next time consult with me first, okay? It worked out alright, but I really didn’t need Peter’s kind of help in this one. Before he showed up I was just fine staying underneath the radar.”

“Neal-“

“It’s fine,” Neal interrupts. “You did what you thought was best – and for the record, so did I when I kept my research from you. As far as I’m concerned that makes us about even in the secrecy-ledger, so why don’t we skip the apologies and mutual guilt and get to the part where we’re back to business as usual or at least pretend to for a moment and you finally tell me what you found? I could really do without the suspense, Mozzie."

During his talk with Moz, the emergency crew had resurfaced from the apartment building, carrying out a stretcher under the watchful eyes of an armed officer. They rolled their criminal charge into the ambulance, the cop stepping into the car with them, and right now are taking off with flashing lights.

With the Cuckoo off the scene, things up in the flat are probably about wrapped up for now so Peter could step out any moment, too.

Neal shares that thought with his friends to hurry things along: "Come on, I don’t know how much longer I get to talk without any suits hovering at my shoulder.”

Moz thinks on that for a moment. “Fine, but I’d get to that part faster if you’d stop interrupting me.”

Neal starts holding up his end of the bargain and bites down on a reply.

“Now _that_ I could get used to.” Moz chokes out a laugh. “So, I went through your notes and got to wondering: So many jobs, but where is the loot? She is doing that morally warped thing where she somehow believes she is the good guy and hates on us for taking things that don’t belong to us. But she commandeered a lot of things worth a lot of money and I asked around: No one heard of the stuff she took being for sale and our community isn’t missing any of its fences; she has to hoard her treasure somewhere, right?  So I start looking into storage, starting with the places closest to her apartment. It took me a while, but I know my way around the docks and guess what I found?”

Neal takes that as cue to break his silence. “Is that question rhetorical or do you actually want me to guess? Either way, I did that, follow the money. I already checked and didn’t find any units rented on her name or known aliases.”

"And that's the snag: There _was_ nothing on her name, but I found a unit on a certain Mason O'Brian. Rent gets payed regularly and in cash, which is remarkable given the guy is dead, and better yet-", Moz pauses dramatically, "no one remembers ever seeing someone enter. Sound familiar?"

Neal groans and curses his oversight. Bruce taught him better than that.

"So I did what any sensible person would do: Went to check it out, let myself in and, et voila - Jackpot."

"Please don't -" As far as Neal can tell, no one is paying any attention to him and yet he lowers his voice. "Moz, no. I don't want another surprise. The last one was bad enough and I am done with secret treasures. Please tell me you didn't..."

"You spent too much time with the suits, they have infected you with their stupid notions of morality," Mozzie's voice is dripping with disdain. "It is most unbecoming."

Neal has always been infected by morality, even if it is the slightly warped version that lends itself perfectly to masks and capes - he just had hidden it better before. It's not quite what is keeping him back this time, though.

"Above all, my time with the suits has made me more _cautious_ – I thought you’d approve of that? After all, it's you who always berates me for being too reckless. The FBI and police will be all over this case soon and I don't know how well the Cuckoo has hidden her trace to that storage unit - but I suspect she didn't. You should have seen her place, a frigging shrine and the reports of her exploits in plain view. I don't think she ever even considered the possibility of getting caught."

“Don’t give them too much credit. It could take ages before the police find the stash and do you want for those poor trinkets to gather dust in the meantime, all alone in the dark?”

“Moz…” His friend isn't usually one to ask permission, and a suspicion dawns on Neal. "You already helped yourself, haven’t you?”

"Only a meagre finder's fee," Moz admits unapologetically." Someone has to make up for that pittance the Man rewards your services with."

In that case there's nothing Neal can do to talk his friend out of it anyway. "As long as they can't prove anything, you'll get no argument from me." Neal pauses, seeing Peter emerge from the building. "But, well, speak of the Man: We'll talk later, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, you just run along. But remember: Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves."

Neal snorts. "Can it, H.D. Thoreau," he warns playfully and cuts the call.

Peter apparently overheard that last exchange, if his raised brow is anything to go by.

"What's the short one up to now?" The agent sounds more weary than accusing and is, to Neal's delight, holding the missing hat in his hands.

"Nothing, hopefully. I've had enough excitement to last me a while. - Thanks." Neal gladly accepts his fedora and, with his usual albeit left-handed flourish, places it back where it belongs. He scans his friend, who looks tired but well, except for the dark bruise starting to blossom around his throat.  As the one responsible for the injury, Neal isn't looking forward to his next time meeting El.

Neal winces in sympathy. "How's your neck?"

Peter absentmindedly rubs the lesion and frowns. "How do you think? Should have been yours instead, because it surely deserves some wringing. What were you even thinking, going up against a damn meta without any backup?"

"I am-," Neal starts in indignation, but then pauses to correct himself, "was a criminal with quite a reputation and you don't stay both infamous _and_ alive in that business if you can't handle yourself against upstart competition, powers or no. I didn't need backup."

"Haversham didn't seem to think so."

“Yeah, well, Moz was spooked because she had been hunting him down. Besides, what was I supposed to do? Just let her have her way and leave my friend to fend for himself?"

"You could have told me instead of trying to do this on your own."

"And what could you have done? You said so yourself - the FBI is all about due process. There was little to no evidence, nothing for you to work on except our word and possibly slightly incriminating circumstances. Heck, before Moz told me he was in danger, I thought the Cuckoo didn't exist and was nothing but a stupid urban myth. That's how good she was at what she did!"

Peter thinks on that for a moment and then unlocks the car, gesturing for Neal to slide in while taking his own seat behind the wheel.

"Do I want to know what your friend did to get her attention?"

"She is a mind reader with a vendetta and some serious issues. I don't think she'd need anything more of a reason." Neal answers his friend's question, while pointedly avoiding actually doing just that.

Peter’s lips thin in disappointment at what Neal's obvious deflection implies. He doesn't comment on it though, but silently buckles up, fires up the engine and weaves into traffic.

 

"I absolutely can't condone your methods," Peter breaks his silence at the first read light, "but they led to the successful arrest of a very dangerous killer. In your shoes I might have done the same."

Neal's lips spread into a wide smile.

"Don't let it get to your head!," Peter warns, even if it is too late for that already. "An arrest isn't a conviction and your actions put us legally into a very tight spot. We didn't have a warrant for her place when we barged in, any lawyer can box her free on that technicality."

Neal follows that line of thought. "And if you claim to have been in pursuit of me that begs the question what I was doing there in the first place."

"It'd land you back in jail," Peter clarifies.

"I'm well aware of that, but it'd be worth it to make sure she doesn't walk free." While Neal'd be willing to make that sacrifice, he doesn't plan on it, not as long as there are other alternatives. "I don't think it'll come to this, though."

"Oh?"

Neal hums in affirmation. "Things would be different if, say, I was working on an FBI documented, albeit cold case. Also, there is precedent in vigilante investigations and arrest, especially given I was acting under the assumption of imminent threat to another's life."

"I don't know if I should be glad you actually thought about the consequences - or worried." Peter glances over. "Cold case?"

"Yep," Neal grins, popping the 'p' because he knows the sound is bound to annoy Peter. "You just arrested the murderer of Mason O'Brian, who in turn killed a clerk called Laura Steep a few years back during a bank robbery. Ring any bells?"

Peter almost jerks the wheel and swears. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Am not. I was as surprised as you, when I got a picture of who I was dealing with and finally had a name beyond the underground rumors."

Peter shakes his head in disbelief. “That certainly makes things easier.”

“Right?”

"I still don't get how you ever thought going after her on your own was a good idea."

Neal scoffs. "Believe it or not, but I wasn't planning on a confrontation." He gestures with his bandaged wrist. "This was supposed to be reconnaissance only. Before a certain someone barged in I was just snooping around for something I could use against Mrs. Cuckoo."

The agent throws him a skeptical glance. "And the inhibitor collar?"

"Only a precaution - but apparently a fortunate one."

Peter snorts. "Where'd you even get that? When I called the arrest in with Metahuman Affairs, the ID on the collar turned out to be legit."

"Oh? That's good, isn't it?" Neal smiles innocently.

He gets a glare from Peter. "Registered and programmed by someone with JLA clearance level. You want to tell me how you got your hands on that?"

"Sara knows a few people and I'm a _very_ lucky guy."

The com in Neal's ear awakens with a crackle in response. "That you are. I took the liberty of sending J'onn to the hospital, double check she didn't gleam any League intel from you."

He taps his watch once in affirmation instead of answering aloud to not clue Peter in on the secret voice in his ear.

"So that's what her visit was about. You told her but not me?," the agent complains.

Barb speaks again and even scrambled by the synthesizer, Neal can hear the grin in her voice: "You're welcome. And just a friendly reminder: this time _you_ get to handle the reservation."

He taps his acknowledgment a second time and then answers Peter: "Well, _she_ isn't a federal agent who could lose their badge for getting involved in unsanctioned observations and the like."

Peter grimaces. "Well, now I _am_ involved. And I'm going to need the full account of what you have been up to so it doesn't fire back on us."

 

* * *

 

 

With the promise of a cold beer to sooth his throat and as much as the full story as legally possible, Neal invites Peter up into his apartment. There's still some of the agent's preferred beverage left in his fridge and this might just go down smoother with alcohol as a mediator.

Neal unlocks the door and switches the light on. There is no sight of Moz, but he sees the folder he should have hidden better laying on the table, next to a bottle and something small, shiny. Those hadn't been there before, but obviously have been left for him to find: an excellent wine - and a diamond. Neal hastily pockets the gem and moves the remaining two items onto an empty spot on one of his kitchen islands. In his mind there isn't a shiver of doubt to who left them or what they are supposed to mean. The message couldn't be clearer if spelled out on a note and Neal smiles.

Peter has already plopped down on the couch, so Neal chucks off his jacket and joins his friend with the promised drink, some salted crackers and icepacks for their respective sores. For himself, he takes a different bottle from the rack - the Barolo is a gift from Moz and meant to be savored by the two of them together.

"So," Peter uncaps his beer and takes a sip, "you promised me a story and you better make due on it."

Neal fills his own glass and leans back. "I thought we had all evening. You cleared this with El, didn't you?"

Peter nods. "Fortunately I have a very considerate wife." He shoots Neal a look. "But thanks to you, that patience has already been tested enough."

Neal shrugs. "Fair, I guess." He gives his glass a swirl. "Well, you already know the gist, I suppose: Moz caught himself a tail, we went chasing after her to return the favor and end up with a familiar name by coincidence instead. It's there that things start getting weird: Did you know she became an unhinged murderer to protect her mother's memory and killed people so no one would suffer again? She definitely didn't get the memo on irony."

Peter sends Neal a look: "You're aware that when I said full story I meant it? This doesn't cut it. - Also, that is ... frighteningly clichéd.”

"Hold your horses, we'll get there." Neal sighs dramatically.  “But seriously: Criminals these days. Absolutely no class, right?”

Peter sends him a lopsided grin. “I'll drink to that.”

Neal's suppresses a shudder at the sound of his wine glass and Peter's bottle clinking. And a smile. “To criminals _with_ class”, he amends cheekily.

Peter's expression remains deceptively mild, but for a twitch of his mouth. “And to agents that catch those criminals.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, whew, I did it! Still kinda hard to believe, because, fun-fact, this is the first thing I ever really finished that wasn't a one-shot or a slightly longer short story - I tried a couple of times but all my other writings turned into these gargantuan colossi, to big for me to wrap my head around and ultimately they all ended up discontinued.  
> But, hey - first times! Yes, I am aware I'm rambling, but I am kind of giddy here. 
> 
> Anyway, I would like to thank all of you who have read and accompanied my story, especially those of you who left me kudos and, even better, comments. In the end, those really provided the fuel my creative engine needed!  
> A special shout-out in this place to mielipieli: Loyal companion through this story and kind enough to leave me a review to every chapter: Dankeschön - If you haven't already, check out her stories for your daily dose of fluff and angst.
> 
> Even if this story is finished now, I'd still enjoy your feedback: I tried wrapping everything up and tying all those loose threads together but if you feel I missed any or found something that doesn't quite add up, please let me know! Also, I love receiving even the shortest of personal notes, so if you did or didn't enjoy this, please let me know!
> 
> Thank you for your time :)


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